


Signature

by arabis



Series: Signature [1]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Allspark!Sam, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Optimus’ A+ parenting, PTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Spark Bonds, dadchet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-10-13 22:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 145,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20590394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabis/pseuds/arabis
Summary: Post-ROTF. Struggling with post-traumatic stress disorder, Sam slowly comes to learn that he brought something back with him from the Egyptian desert. This is my take on Steelfeather’s Instability story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steelfeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steelfeathers/gifts).

> Ten years ago, Steelfeathers published Instability, which has become one of the most popular Transformers fan fictions of all time. Since its original publication, this story has stood out for its balanced blend of world building, canon-compliant interactions among characters, and nail-biting suspense. At Steelfeather’s request, this will not be a straight chapter-by-chapter reboot. Rather, she has given her blessing for me to write my version of her story. If you haven’t read Instability yet, stop right now and do so. She did it first, and she did it best: 
> 
> [Instability (FF.Net)](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/5196792/1/Instability)

When Sam, Mikaela, and his parents had first boarded the aircraft carrier the following morning, fear had been the furthest thing from his mind. Instead, he had been overwhelmed with a reverent thankfulness to be alive. To feel Mikaela’s soft hand in his own, her fingers interlaced with his. To hear his parents’ (hilarious) commentary, equal parts disbelieving and outraged, as they found themselves fully immersed in a world that Sam had lived in for the last two years.

More than anything, as he stood on the flight deck and stared out towards the receding shoreline, Sam was grateful that all of his companions had come back from Egypt alive. That hadn’t been the case in Mission City, when Jazz had died—a loss still felt keenly by the Autobots. In Egypt they had been close, so close, to complete destruction. They had almost lost Optimus, their sun, the human race. If it weren’t for the intervention of seven benevolent alien demi-gods—

Sam shook his head sharply, cutting off the train of thought. That wasn’t something he was ready to confront right now. Or maybe ever.

Glancing over his shoulder, Sam watched as Optimus approached. A wan smile tugged at his lips. For a 20-plus foot tall alien robot that weighed about a thousand tons, the Autobot leader could be as quiet as a whisper when he wanted.

“Thank-you, Sam, for saving my life.” Optimus said, sincere and dignified, as he stopped beside him.

The irony of that statement made Sam smile for real.

“You’re welcome." He said, before adding, "And thank-you for believing in me.”

They stood in companionable silence for several moments before Sam looked up at the large mechanoid, “Everyone doing alright? Ratchet must be in full blown mother-hen mode.”

Optimus cycled air through his vents, a sound reminiscent of a human sigh, “Although we came perilously close to the unthinkable, most of my soldiers made it through the battle with only minor damages. Ratchet is with Arcee now.”

Sam knew that Arcee and her sisters had sustained more serious injuries than the others. An uncomfortable feeling lodged itself in his chest.

“She’ll be okay though, right? Ratchet’ll fix her up good as new?” Sam asked, unable to keep the sharp note of anxiety from his voice. Even though he didn’t know Arcee well—truth be told, they hadn’t spent more than two hours in each other’s company—the idea of losing any of them was physically painful.

Optimus turned and regarded him closely, before lowering to one knee. Sam was surprised to feel a twinge of fear as Optimus leaned towards him, but he didn’t have the time to reflect on it before the Autobot leader was speaking.

“Arcee will be fine, Sam, as will the others.” There was a pause, and Sam had the sense that Optimus was choosing his next words carefully, “Megatron was dealt a grievous blow with this defeat. The Decepticons will fall back and regroup. They will not pose a threat for the near future.”

Sam dropped his gaze as the uncomfortable feeling in his chest tightened. Dread, he realized distantly. Raising his head, Sam met the intense blue of Optimus’ optics.

“That’s good. Well, not good that they’ll be back eventually, but they’re like cockroaches, you know? Leave one alive and they’ll crawl out of the woodwork eventually. But it’s good that we gave them a beat-down that really hurt. A real life knock ‘em, sock ‘em robots.” Sam laughed and drew a sharp breath between his teeth, “Maybe this time Megatron will think twice before plotting to overthrow the planet again.”

Something softened in Optimus’ optics.

“Sam—” He started.

“Sam!” Mikaela yelled as she jogged towards him.

He turned towards her, affection warming the expression on his face, “Hey ‘Kaela.” 

“Have you been out here this whole time? The doctor is asking for you.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace. When they had first boarded the aircraft carrier, the Autobots had been directed to the flight deck to undergo Ratchet’s tender ministrations, while the human contingent had been sent below decks to the hospital corps. Sam had spent an unpleasant hour and a half as they cleaned and dressed the second-degree burns over his chest and left arm, then wrapped tape around his chest to steady his two cracked ribs. Sam’s teenaged male pride had wanted to crack jokes and make light, but all false bravado had died on his lips when they started digging the sand and masonry fragments out of his weeping wounds. That had _hurt_, dammit, and he had shook in pain despite the painkillers they had given him.

When they had finished, and Sam lay pale and shivering on the bed, they had stuck electrodes to his calves, arms, and chest. The corpsmen had murmured to one another as they looked at the output of the EKG and, deciding Sam wasn’t about to drop dead, they had brought him fresh clothes and told him to get dressed. Shortly thereafter, the attending physician had given him military-grade antibiotics and told Sam that he would check on him after he had seen to Sam’s parents. Sam had thought a reunion with Barricade sounded more enjoyable, honestly, and he had made his way out of the hospital ward at the first available opportunity. When he had spotted the uniformed soldiers standing sentry in the corridor, he asked for directions to the flight deck. He had fully expected a denial, but to his surprise, a beefy soldier that made Epps look like a hall monitor had escorted him to the flight deck himself. That made sense, Sam had reflected on the way, can’t have a recently resurrected, twitchy, teenager roaming about unattended. 

The idea of returning to the hospital ward, to be poked at and murmured over by strangers, made his insides seize in anxiety. Desperate to delay the inevitable—they weren’t going to let him sleep on the flight deck, after all—Sam turned and fixed Mikaela with his most charming smile.

“Sorry, ‘Kaela, I’ve been brooding. You know how it is with manly types.” He grinned, wiggling the fingers of his good hand near his head. “We get all introspective and pensive after a brush with death.”

If her loud snort was anything to go by, he did a shit job of pulling off the role of cavalier war hero.

“Come on Sam, your parents are looking for you too.”

Sam’s grimace returned in earnest, and he looked back towards the ocean to conceal his reaction. After the gunfire had died down and the smoke had settled, his parents had embraced him with a quiet intensity that had shook Sam to his core. Unlike the loud crying his mother had indulged in while he packed for university, this had been nearly silent. Both his mother and his father had hugged him close, their breath harsh in his ears and tears on their cheeks, all without uttering a single word. It had left Sam with a feeling that gripped him tight, indefinable and elusive. He didn’t know how to confront that feeling again without breaking down.

Sam swallowed hard, still looking towards the horizon.

“Sam?” Mikaela asked, her voice edged with concern. 

“I’m fine.” He replied abruptly, realizing too late that his voice was too loud. Too sharp. He paused, taking a moment to gather himself, and said, “I want to check on Bumblebee first.” Sam looked up at Optimus, avoiding Mikaela’s gaze, “Is that alright?”

Before Optimus could reply, a thought suddenly occurred to him and his chest seized painfully, in guilt this time, rather than dread.

“Wait,” Sam rushed, cutting Optimus off, “Is he in recharge? I mean, he just had a throw-down high-stakes death match with the devil—well, devils—incarnate.” Another thought occurred to him, “Or does he need to see Ratchet? I know Ratchet needs to focus on Arcee right now, but if Bumblebee is hurt, then I don’t want—”

“Sam.” A single word from the Autobot leader, but it was enough to cut off his rambling. He looked up at Optimus, surprised to realize his heart was in his throat.

“Bumblebee is fine.” Optimus repeated his assurances from earlier. His tone, although gentle, was firm as he continued, “He will be on the flight deck if you wish to see him. But first, you should see your physician and your parents.”

Feeling slightly stung by the denial, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He replied. What else could he say?

Optimus straightened to his full height, watching Sam with those brilliant blue optics. Sam turned, taking Mikaela’s hand in his own, and started off towards the flight deck door. The beefy solider who had escorted him was still standing there, waiting. Next to him stood his carbon copy, a six-foot-plus tall, wide-as-a-barn-door, stack of muscle carrying a sidearm. Honestly, the two of them looked like they were a limited edition matched set.

_Decepticon killing accessories sold separately_, Sam thought with amusement.

As they stepped into the shadow of the observation deck, Sam glanced back over his shoulder. Optimus stood at the edge of the flight deck, looking out over the water. His posture was solemn and dignified, but he had an air of quiet introspection about him. It gave the Autobot leader a solitary appearance.

It was the last thing that Sam saw before the iron door closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **FRIENDLY WARNING:** I answer a lot of questions in the comments, and that includes some major spoilers. Read with caution.


	2. Chapter 2

The walk to the hospital ward was quiet, except for the ringing of their shoes down the metal corridor and the distant hum of machinery. Mikaela’s thumb rubbed gentle circles into his palm, but Sam barely felt it. In short order, he found himself sitting in front of a small desk in a cramped office, his parents on his left and Mikaela on his right. When he had first walked into the ward, his parents had descended on him, flustered and fussing. His father had been harsh, (“Where were you? You can’t just wander around a _battleship_! You have to be smarter, Sam!”), and his mother had been relieved, (“Oh Sammy, look at you”). The doctor had surveyed them all in silence, his eyes moving between Sam and his parents, before he asked to speak with Sam alone. In comically perfect unison, his parents had turned away from Sam and directed their collective ire towards the doctor. To his credit, the doctor neither flinched nor paled in the face of two royally pissed off parents who, just yesterday, had watched their only child die in the desert.

Before the doctor could repeat himself, Sam had tiredly raised his hand, “It’s okay. They can hear whatever you have to say.”

The doctor had studied him for a moment, and then turned on his heel and beckoned for them to follow. And so Sam found himself in the smallest office on the planet—he was sure his parents’ broom closet was bigger—with his mother fussing over him and the corpsman watching them all with a serious expression on his face.

“Sam,” He began, and there was no doubt he was speaking only to him, “I need to impress upon you the seriousness of your injuries. Your heart stopped beating for over eight minutes, you have second-degree burns over a fourth of your body, and you have two cracked ribs.”

The doctor paused, looking as though he was turning his words over in his mouth, considering them carefully, “Sam,” He started again, his voice losing a bit of its hardened, professional edge, “By all accounts, you should be dead.”

Sam blinked. He knew that. Of course he knew that. The doctor couldn’t imagine what Sam had experienced between the time Megatron’s canon blast had hit true and when he gasped back to life, ten minutes later. In lieu of an intelligent response, which Sam found himself incapable of producing, he nodded.

At Sam’s non-reply, the doctor’s expression intensified, “Sam,” He tried again, as though Sam hadn’t perfectly understood what he had just said, “People who have been revived from cardiac arrest by defibrillation are at risk for recurring and potentially serious health problems. You will need to adhere to a careful regimen of exercise, diet, and rest to prevent any complications.”

Sam was vaguely aware of his parents’ speaking, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Instead, he only heard the doctor’s words, repeating like a mantra in his mind. _Revived by defibrillation_. Because that wasn’t true, was it? Mikaela had told him how the medics had tried, pressing paddles to his burnt chest and screaming to “Get clear! Get clear!” But despite their best efforts, he had remained cold and unresponsive under the burning Egyptian sun. The defibrillation had nothing to do with his revival, and Sam knew it.

When Sam came back to himself a few moments later, his mother was speaking.

“What do you mean ‘complications’?” She asked, “What type of complications?”

The doctor interlaced his fingers and returned his mother’s gaze.

“They can vary widely, from mild to severe. Sam can expect to experience some degree of chest pain, dizziness, fatigue, and breathlessness. Palpitations are also likely, over the next several months. In rare but extreme cases, a post-trauma relapse can occur.” At his mother’s confused expression, he clarified, “A heart attack.”

Sam flinched.

“His burns are extensive, covering most of his chest and left arm. They include first- and second-degree burns, which means the damage extends beyond the outer layer of skin and into the dermis. Second-degree burns can be potentially dangerous when they affect large areas of the body, including the joints and hands, as is Sam’s case. We have applied antibiotic ointment and, considering the conditions in which Sam received the burns, I have prescribed an oral antibiotic to stave off any potential infections.”

The doctor returned his attention to Sam.

“Your recovery isn’t going to be pleasant. Second-degree burns hurt like hell and take weeks to heal. You’ll need to have your dressings changed every twelve hours for the first week. You will remain on the oral antibiotics for ten days. I will also prescribe you an alternating round of acetaminophen and ibuprofen every four hours. Take my advice and set an alarm to remember your medication. You’ll want to stay on top of your pain management.”

His mother was pale but composed. She asked, “His ribs?”

The doctor’s lips quirked in a smile.

“Ah, yes. My apologies. Believe it or not, your ribs are the least of your concerns. They are only cracked, not broken. As there has been no misalignment, there’s no worry about internal injuries. I expect they will take four to six weeks to fully heal. In the meantime, you’ll feel discomfort if you laugh suddenly or twist your torso. The treatment for your ribs is the same for your burns: rest and over-the-counter pain relief. One word of caution, however. It may hurt to take deep breaths right now, but it is imperative that you breathe normally. If you resort to shallow panting to avoid pain, you could develop pneumonia.”

The doctor turned in his chair and retrieved a stack of papers from his printer, handing them across the table to him. Sam shuffled through them, recognizing the printouts as WebMD entries for his injuries. Pages neatly labeled ‘Symptoms’, ‘Treatment’, ‘Recovery’, and ‘Complications’ stared back at him.

A sudden sense of surrealism slammed into him with all the force of a mac truck. He was sitting on a US aircraft carrier in the middle of the Red Sea, chatting politely about the complications of coming back from the dead. His father was speaking now, but Sam couldn’t hear him over the static building in his ears. It hadn’t been like this after Mission City. After he had shoved the cube into Megatron’s chest, he had popped back up like a _fucking daisy_, totally unbothered. But he had been younger then, and even though he had been terrified, he had held unwavering certainty that his Autobot companions would defeat the bad guys and save the day.

Sam distantly realized that his heart was jack-rabbiting in his chest. What an ignorant, naïve _child_ he had been. Too immature to fully appreciate the world-ending, race-destroying mortal danger they had faced. Too stupid to understand that although the Autobots were super intelligent, super powerful, virtually immortal alien robots, they could still fucking suffer. They could still fucking _die_.

“…Sam?” The doctor’s voice cut into his thoughts. Sam’s head snapped up to find the doctor staring very intently at him across the desk. He realized, too late, that the office was perfectly quiet. His mother and his father were turned in their chairs, looking at him, and he felt Mikaela squeezing his good shoulder. When had she put her hand there?

Embarrassment surged through him, hot and fast, and he felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair.

“Uh, sorry. Just a lot to take in, I guess.” He tried, lamely.

His mother smiled at him, “Of course it is, Sammy.” She turned to the doctor, business-like and composed, “Is there anything we can do?”

After a moment, the doctor turned his attention back to his mother. “Sam needs food and rest, in that order. I want to see him back here at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow morning for his dressing change and antibiotics. I’ll send your pain medication with you now. The bandages are waterproof, Sam, so you can shower whenever you like. If the pain becomes too much, even with the OTC meds, come back and see me.” 

His mother nodded and stood up. “Alright, where can we get some food around here?”

Sam was struck with the sudden realization that he didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him. She was nothing like the sobbing mother who helped pack her only son off to college. Nor was she the terrified and desperate woman crying for him in Egypt. She was something else entirely. Collected and purposeful. Transformed.

The others were also getting to their feet, and Sam hastily followed suit.

“Chief Master Sergeant Williams will escort you to the mess.” The doctor explained as they made their way back into the hospital ward. Sam realized that he was referring to the solider who had taken him to the flight deck earlier.

The doctor retrieved a small paper bag from another corpsman and handed it to him. Opening it and peering inside, Sam saw two orange bottles with white lids, partially filled with pills.

“Take two ibuprofen with your meal, then two acetaminophen before bed.”

Sam nodded at him mutely and then let himself be swept away by his mother.

The walk to the mess was far livelier than the walk to the hospital ward. His mother badgered their escort with questions the entire length of the ship; to his credit, Williams answered her good-naturedly.

“What’s the name of this ship, anyway?” Had been her opening volley, before they had even stepped foot outside the ward.

“This is the USS Theodore Roosevelt, ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s a nice name. How many people serve on it?”

“The ship’s complement is about 5700 strong.” Anticipating her next question, he supplied helpfully, “TR is 1092 feet in length and has a displacement of over 100,000 tons.”

“That’s a big boat.” His father remarked dryly.

“It is.” Williams confirmed with a touch of pride in his voice. “In addition to a full armament and electronic countermeasures, the Theodore Roosevelt can travel over 30 knots, when we have someplace we need to be.”

“Where are we headed now?” Sam asked curiously.

Williams hesitated a moment before he replied. “We are on our way to Camp Lemonnier, a U.S. naval base located on the Bab-el-Mandeb strait, which separates the Red Sea from the Gulf of Aden.”

“I’ve never heard of it.” His mother replied.

“It’s the only permanent US military base in Africa. More importantly, it has a world-class air field, which is how we’ll get you folks stateside.”

“How long will it take to get there?” Sam asked, before his mother could get a word in edge-wise.

“Three days, or thereabouts.” Williams replied as he stepped forward, pulling open a heavy hatch and standing aside so they could pass through. His parents stepped through the hatch first, and Sam and Mikaela followed behind. Williams brought up the rear, pulling the hatch closed behind them with a groan of metal. 

“How long have you been on board?” His father asked, as they continued down the narrow corridor.

“On and off for about four years.” Was the answer he received.

“You must know your way around pretty well.” His mother observed, her eyes roving over the white-washed walls and polished floors.

“Better than most,” He said with a wry turn of his lips, “Which is why I have been assigned to help you find your way around. It’s easy to get lost, even for those of us who’ve been here awhile.”

Shortly thereafter, they walked into the mess hall. It was nothing like Sam was expecting, although what he was expecting, he couldn’t say. It gave him a funny turn in his chest to realize that the mess hall was strangely reminiscent of his dormitory’s dining hall. A long galley took up the far wall, filled with deep trays of food set under a transparent sneeze guard. The hall was crammed with tables and chairs, each emblazoned with a seal of Theodore Roosevelt's face encircled with the words “USS Theodore Roosevelt”. The room was loud with the buzz of people in all manner of dress, chatting with one another over the clink of cutlery and dishware. Absurdly, two large flat screen televisions were mounted to a steel beam that ran from floor to ceiling in the middle of the room, and Bob’s Burgers was playing on low volume.

Williams led them to the back of the galley line, grabbing himself a tray from the stack beside them. Sam, Mikaela, and his parents followed suit. As they made their way down the galley, Sam was surprised by the variety of food available to choose from. First they passed the salad bar, then they passed pasta salads and potato salads, then soups, then a sandwich bar. At the end of the galley there were several deep trays with what, evidentially, was tonight’s main course. Small, printed cards helpfully informed him that his options were “Meat lasagna”, “General Tso’s chicken over fried rice” and “Vegetarian pinto posole”.

Once the group had filled their trays and grabbed their drinks, they walked to the cash registers at the end of the line. Williams handed one of the cashiers a card and murmured that they were all on his tab. Sam walked by after his items had been tallied, and together they found a table at the other end of the mess hall.

Sam pulled out the chair and sat down carefully, staring at his tray. Lukewarm lasagna, an apple, and a brownie. How long had it been since he had last eaten anything substantial? He had eaten breakfast before his astronomy lecture. When had that been? His eyes narrowed in thought, and the answer came as an unwelcome surprise. It had been the day before yesterday. 

“Sammy.” His mother nudged him, “Eat.”

Despite the time since he had last eaten, Sam wasn’t the least bit hungry. His mother wasn’t asking though, she was telling, so he picked up his fork and obediently started on his food. As he chewed and swallowed, Sam realized that he could barely taste a thing. His mother opened the paper bag the doctor gave him, pulled out a bottle, shook out two pills, and handed them to him in her open palm. He took them from her, popped them into his mouth, and washed him down with a mouthful of milk. There. That wasn’t so bad.

Sam felt a nudge against his calf and he glanced across the table with a half-smile. Mikaela was looking back, a smirk curling one corner of her mouth, as she twirled her fork in her pinto posole. He felt a warm rush of affection and leaned forward, extending his hand, palm up and resting on the table. She did the same, clasping his hand in her own. 

“So, where are we going to sleep on this boat?” His mother asked, directing her question once again to Williams.

The officer paused as he finished swallowing, and replied, “It’s tight quarters on a naval ship. Enlisted personnel stay in berthing compartments with about sixty others. Rooms have been set aside for each of you in the officers section. The rooms are small and sparse, not much more than a bed and a toilet really, but they’re private, so there’s that.”

His mother nodded, satisfied with his answer, and Sam speared another forkful of might-as-well-have-been-wet-cement, methodically chewing and swallowing.

The next hour passed in a blur. They finished their meals, the others chatting across the table with each other. Sam didn’t contribute to the conversation, and he responded to questions directed his way in as few words as possible. Mikaela tried to involve him in their chatter, but although he smiled at her, he didn’t engage.

After they had stowed their dishware and set their trays on the pile of others, Williams led them out of the mess hall. The sound of contented chattering and the clinking of dishes faded as they made their way deeper into the ship. It was no time at all before Williams stepped through another hatch into a long, narrow corridor. Williams continued forward, coming to a stop in front of a squat, metal door. The room within was too small for them all to stand comfortably inside, so he explained from the hallway, “This room here, as well as these two and that one there, have been set aside for your use. The other American noncombatants have quarters on the deck below. As you can see, the rooms are small but serviceable. There will be soldiers posted on the other side of the hatchway there—” He pointed at door they had just stepped through, “And there—” he pointed to an identical door at the other end of the hallway. “—if you need anything. If you want to visit the hospital ward or the mess, one of us will escort you.”

Shortly thereafter, Sam found himself alone in a room smaller than the hospital corpsman’s office. Williams was right, it was sparse, but the privacy was so welcome that Sam didn’t care. The navy hadn’t given him sleepwear, so he slipped off his shoes and dropped the jacket on the floor.

Sam eased himself down onto the bed, wincing in pain as his ribs twinged in protest and his burns pulled against his bandages. Dr. Doom hadn’t been wrong, he hurt all over. Sam glanced towards the bedside table at the bottle of water and two orange pill bottles that his mother had given him before he begged off for the night. Deciding that he was a grown ass adult and an early dose of over-the-counter Tylenol wasn’t going to kill him, he shook two pills into his hand and swallowed them down with a mouthful of lukewarm water.

Sam glanced at the jacket laying by the bed, and he leaned over (fucking _ouch_) and rooted around in the pockets. It was only a moment before he located his phone. Bee had brought it to him after the battle, retrieved from god knows where. The screen was cracked and sand was embedded in the crease between the phone and its case, but it still powered on with a happy chime. Only eighteen percent power though, he frowned. Where was he going to find a phone charger on a battleship?

Carefully, Sam lay down on the bed and pulled the military-issue blankets over him as he waited for his phone to finish powering on. A moment later, he opened his texts and scrolled to the contact he wanted to message. _Bumblebee_.

Shortly after Bumblebee had requested to be his guardian in the aftermath of Mission City, the yellow Autobot had added his contact to Sam’s cellphone. He had no idea how it worked, it’s not like Bee had signed a three-year contract with Verizon Wireless, but whenever Sam texted him, Bumblebee always replied.

So with his head cushioned on a scratchy pillow, in a metal box smaller than a service elevator, Sam texted his guardian.

_SamWitwicky: hey bee_

It was only a moment before his phone pinged,

_Bee: Hello Sam._

_Bee: How are you?_

A happy smile stretched his face for the first time in two days.

_SamWitwicky: i’ve had better days. how are you?_

_SamWitwicky: Has Ratchet been the worst?_

The pause was longer this time, but Bee replied a moment later.

_Bee: Ratchet has been true to form. How are you feeling?_

Sam grimaced at his phone. He had neither the ability nor the desire to articulate all the shit that he’d experienced over the last twelve hours. So instead, he opted to be light-hearted.

_SamWitwicky: im super. you should see the five-star accommodations we’ve got. real red carpet stuff._

It was hardly a moment before his phone chimed again.

_Bee: Your vitals are within acceptable limits, although your endorphins are elevated. Are you in pain?_

A fond smile pulled at his lips. Sam remembered the first time that Bee had explained about the Autobots’ ability to scan humans to obtain information about their biometics and hormones. At the time, Sam had been unnerved, freaked out even, but he came to understand that there was nothing malicious about their scans. It came as naturally to the Autobots as breathing came to him.

Knowing that a lie would be pointless, Sam told him the truth.

_SamWitwicky: my ribs hurt and my chest hurts._

_SamWitwicky: but they say ill live. nothing I can’t handle._

_Bee: You should know that Ratchet wants to see you._

Sam grimaced deeply. The old medic was well-known for his short temper and abysmal bedside manner.

_SamWitwicky: sounds like a fun time._

_SamWitwicky: could we invite megatron along too? just to round out the whole experience._

Sam had been aiming for light-hearted levity, but when he read Bumblebee’s reply, he realized that he had missed the mark entirely.

_Bee: Ratchet would never hurt you, Sam. I know the last two days have been difficult, and that I have failed in my duty as your guardian, but we will protect you. Always._

He grimaced, feeling like a huge asshole.

_SamWitwicky: I know, Bee. I was joking. Im sorry._

_Bee: You have done nothing to give offense. No apology is necessary._

_Bee: Sam, my sensors tell me that your body is going into recharge. Dr. McNeil has informed us that rest is vital for your recovery. You should sleep. I will see you in the morning._

Sam held the cellphone in his hand, staring at the screen. His guardian was right, he knew. His body felt heavy with exhaustion, and the soreness in his muscles had been slowly building all day.

_SamWitwicky: What time is it?_

His cell phone said it was 10:18 PM, but he had no idea what time it was back home. Bumblebee interpreted his question correctly and replied,

_Bee: It’s 4:18 PM in New Jersey._

Sam blinked at the reply. He had been awake for over twenty-four hours.

_SamWitwicky: I guess I should try to get some sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow bee._

_Bee: Rest well, Sam._

Sam powered off the cellphone to conserve its battery, before placing it on the bedside table. He debated whether to get up and shut off the lights, but he had absolutely no desire to move. Instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the softness of the bed and the quiet of the room as he drifted to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam dreamed in disjointed images and half-memories.

_He was in the library at Princeton as books exploded into loose paper around him, fluttering in the air like a twisted tickertape parade as he ran for his life. The sound of gunfire, rapid and impossibly loud—getting louder as the Pretender gained on him—and terrified screaming filled his mind. (God, please no...)_

_He ran past faceless students, desperate to get out, get away, get safe, but his legs were so heavy. No matter how he tried, the Pretender got closer, and closer—_

_Then, with the logic that can only make sense in a dream, he’s running out of the library and into the desert. Egypt. And standing between him and the broken body of Optimus Prime is Megatron, impossibly large in the harsh sunlight._

_Slowly, the Decepticon leader turned towards him, and Sam saw the Matrix gleaming in his curled fingers. Fear surged through his body like molten metal, and Sam desperately looked down at his own hand—now empty. _

_No. It can’t be. (Optimus! Optimus, get up! **Get up**!)_

_Then Megatron was lifting his arm towards him, charging his fusion canon, and the Decepticon growled a single word, which Sam remembered with perfect, horrible clarity—_

_“Die.”_

_Brilliant blue flashed across his mind—_

Sam jerked awake in bed with a cry, his heart pounding in his chest as though he’d just run a five-minute mile. The motion caused pure agony to lance his sides as he twisted his ribs wrong, and the edges of his vision swam precariously. Sucking in sharp breaths through gritted teeth, Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately not to vomit as the pain and lingering terror of his nightmare soured his stomach. Focusing all of his willpower, he pulled air in through his nose and out of his mouth, once, twice. Slowly, the nausea began to fade and Sam became aware of his surroundings.

He was in his assigned room onboard the aircraft carrier. The florescent lightbulb still shone in the ceiling, and his jacket was still on the floor. Everything was exactly the same as it had been before he’d fallen asleep, and yet it was totally different. The room wasn’t small, it was _claustrophobic_. Megatron and Starscream could be about to attack right now, and he’d never know it. It would only take one well-placed blast from a plasma canon to blow a house-sized hole through the ship, and that would be it. They would all drown as the ship filled with water on the way to the bottom of the sea.

Sam realized he was shaking violently about the same time he became aware of a strident sound—his cellphone was ringing, persistent and urgent. It must have been what had woken him up. Sam didn’t need to check his phone to know who was calling. After all, he’d shut off the phone before he’d gone to sleep. Who else could it be?

Suddenly, Sam had a primal, hindbrain-driven need to get out of this room and off this boat, _right-the-fuck-now_. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he lurched to his feet and yanked the door open. An officer walking half-way down the hall jerked in surprise as Sam stumbled out of his room. He jogged towards the closest hatch door, opening it and stepping through in a single motion.

Two military types stood in the hall on the other side of the door. One was a tall, dark man with a no-nonsense expression and the other was a woman, her pale hair pulled in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Both wore identical uniforms and held M4 assault rifles across their chests. The eyebrows of Tall and Serious rose up to his hairline as he looked Sam up and down, though whether it was in surprise at his sudden entrance or his haphazard appearance, he couldn’t guess.

“Flight deck.” He said without preamble, noting his voice sounded reasonably sane. Excellent.

Tall and Serious nodded slowly, “Yeah, okay. You alright son?”

Sam felt a flare of anger at the patronizing tone, and narrowed his eyes at the solider. _No, he was not alright_. He was shaking so hard he thought he might fall apart, and his chest burned as though it had been set on fire. He was about as far from ‘alright’ as he had been since Egypt.

It must have shown on his face because Tall and Serious said, placating, “Alright, alright. Follow me."

Sam fell into step at the soldier’s side without a word. His shirt, which was soaked through with sweat, was rapidly cooling in the air-conditioned hallway, and goosebumps broke out over his arms and torso. It was no time at all before Sam was shivering in cold as well as pain. He did his best to pay attention to the route they were taking—down the hallway, through a port door, down another hallway, up a narrow flight of stairs, down one more hallway—but every hallway was identical in appearance, every door and every feature looked the same. It was a small eternity before they approached the flight deck door, which the solider pushed open for him. Sam stepped into the darkness, eyes closing in relief at the feeling of fresh air on his face. When he opened his eyes again a moment later, he was not at all surprised to see Bumblebee waiting a dozen feet away in his alt form.

He walked towards his guardian—the cold air brought with it the unwelcome realization that he had left his coat and his shoes back in the room—and was gratified when Bee opened the door for him. Without a moment’s hesitation, he climbed inside the cab and settled into the driver’s seat. The door clicked shut behind him and (wonderfully) warm air blasted from the vents on Bee’s dash. Sam closed his eyes as his head pitched forward, thankful beyond words for the warmth and quiet of Bee’s cab. Slowly he reached up and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, grounded by the feel of smooth leather under his skin. Minutes passed by in silence and the tightness in Sam’s body relaxed by increments, his heartbeat slowing as his anxiety bled away.

When Sam felt calm enough to talk, he unclenched his fingers from the steering wheel and lay back against the driver’s seat. The movement caused his ribs to twinge, and he wrapped his arm around his torso with a wince. Now that he was cognizant enough to take stock of himself, he realized that every single muscle in his body hurt. Delayed onset muscle soreness, he knew. The strain of the last two days was making itself felt, adding to the list of grievances his body was currently holding against him.

“So,” Sam said, voice low and rough, “Come here often?”

“Are you alright?” Bumblebee asked without preamble, sounding strained. Although contact with the Allspark had healed Bee’s voice circuitry, the scout rarely used his speaking voice. He preferred instead to share snippets of pop songs, jingles, and sound effects to communicate. Sam knew then that he must have unsettled the scout greatly.

“I’m alright Bee,” He reassured his guardian tiredly, “Just a bad dream.”

Even as the words left his mouth, Sam knew that wasn’t the whole truth. He’d had bad dreams before, even bad dreams about Megatron, but nothing like this. This had been visceral. Judging by the mournful-sounding burst of static from the radio, his words had not assuaged the yellow Autobot.

A sudden thought occurred to Sam and he asked curiously, “How’d you manage to turn my phone back on?”

A moment of silence followed—Sam knew he had surprised his guardian with the apparent non-sequitur—and then Bee was answering, “It was a simple thing to do. As long as your cellphone has a charge, it is always sending and receiving signal.”

Sam nodded, accepting the answer without question. He had come to learn that seemingly nothing was impossible when Autobots and technology were involved. After all, how else had his guardian managed to text him while he was deep within an iron battleship in the middle of the Red Sea?

“Well, thank-you.” He replied softly.

Sam shifted and winced again as his ribs protested. At the minute gesture, the driver’s seat lowered a fraction and warmth blossomed around him. Sam had to bite back a groan as the aching muscles in his back soaked up the heat like a sponge—it felt amazing.

“Heated seats?” He asked, voice strained, “Bee, you’ve been holding out on me, buddy.”

The steering wheel twiddled playfully in front of him, earning the Autobot a small but genuine grin.

Sam’s eyes fluttered closed and he heaved a sigh as muscles he didn’t know he had slowly loosened. He may have wide-spread burns, two cracked ribs, and he may be physically exhausted, but in that moment everything was alright. He was warm and comfortable. He was safe.

Sam lay quietly for a while before another thought occurred to him, and he asked without opening his eyes, “How’s Arcee?”

The driver’s seat reclined another few inches, and Sam sighed in appreciation.

“Arcee is in recharge now. Rachet has done all he can until we return to Diego Garcia. Chromia and Elita-One are with her.”

Sam nodded slowly, murmuring, “That’s good.”

“Arcee and I have known each other since before the Great War,” Bumblebee was saying, his voice pitched low and smooth, “She’s a warrior, she’ll be fine.”

“I knew you guys were friends, but I didn’t know you’d known each other for that long.”

“Oh yes,” Bee replied, his voice quiet, “Arcee and her sisters were sparked not long before me. She was a scientist, back on Cybertron, before the Great War.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Millions of years ago.” Bee replied.

It was a long moment before Sam answered, and his words were barely a murmur, “I sometimes forget that you guys are so old.”

“I’m not so old.” Bumblebee said, with real amusement in his voice, “Optimus and Ratchet are many times my age. If you can believe it, Ratchet was a Senator before the war. Optimus was the Chief Scientist at the Temple Simfur, where the Allspark was kept following its excavation.” Bee’s voice softened in fond remembrance, “Optimus and I worked together at the temple; he oversaw the Allspark and I protected it.”

Bumblebee stopped speaking, his radio going dark and quiet, though he was not waiting for a response. His sensors (and Sam’s soft, even breathing) informed him that his human was fast asleep.

\--

Sam half-awoke a short while later, roused by the sound of an engine turning over. He raised his head an inch or two and blinked blearily at his surroundings, disoriented. But then Bee was murmuring at him and Sam relaxed, eyes fluttering closed as his lay back against the seat. Warm and comfortable, he was asleep again a moment later.

\--

Sam woke slowly, groaning in disapproval. His first conscious thought was that he hurt all over; the burns on his chest in particular were well within the domain of legitimate pain. Sam reached blindly for his blankets, fully intending to roll over and go right back to sleep. When his hands grasped empty air, he blinked his eyes open in confusion. He stared at his surroundings in disorientation for the space of a heartbeat—steering wheel, gear stick, dash board—before his mind caught up with him.

Bee’s interior was quiet and dark; sometime during the night he had tinted his windows so they were opaque. The clock on the dashboard informed him that it was 8:14 AM. Sam’s first thought—tinged in genuine surprise—was that he had slept the entire night without another nightmare. Sam’s second thought was a rush of sheer embarrassment at having done so in the first place.

“Oh my god, Bee.” Sam groaned, voice rough with sleep. He struggled into a sitting position, and the driver’s seat inclined forward to help him. “I am so sorry if I snored.” A second thought occurred to him and Sam gasped, mortified, “Oh my god, did I _drool_ on you?”

The lights on the radio brightened and the dial slid across frequencies, resulting in a burst of sound that was suspiciously reminiscent of laughter.

“Good morning, Sam.” Was the amused reply.

Sam rubbed his good hand over his face and groaned again, audibly.

“How are you feeling?” Bee inquired, and Sam took a moment to consider the question before answering.

“Pretty rough,” He admitted, “My chest hurts.”

“Your burns or your ribs?” Bee asked, pragmatically.

“Both, I guess, but mostly the burns.” Sam glanced at the dash again, where the time was glowing back at him, “Doctor Doom is going to be pissed. He wanted to see me at seven.”

“Yes, I know. He contacted Ratchet when you failed to arrive on time, but Ratchet felt that your rest was more important than a dressing change. The doctor eventually assented.” Bee replied. Sam was familiar enough with the grumpy old medic to discern the truth of the scout’s words. The doctor had requested he wake Sam and send him down, and Ratchet had refused.

“Well, I guess I had better head down then.” Sam said, and in response the window tint faded away until he had an unobstructed view of the flight deck. Bee was parked on the far end of the ship, under an awning of camo canvas that was hung over a large portion of the deck. Sam could see the other Autobots, parked in their alt forms and assembled in groups. On the far side were Mudflap and Skids, a short ways away were Sideswipe and Jolt. Ironhide and Optimus were closer, and off to the side was Arcee, sandwiched between Chromia and Elita-One.

Sam was unsurprised but dismayed to see Ratchet standing directly in front of Bumblebee in his bipedal mode, arms crossed in a characteristically human way. If the expression on his faceplate was anything to go by, the medic was impatient-bordering-on-annoyed.

“Any chance you could outrun him?” Sam asked, only partially joking.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.” The medic replied, and rapped Bee smartly on the hood with his knuckles, “Out you get.”

The door clicked open, and Sam climbed out obediently. It was a ginger undertaking, but he mostly accomplished it without twisting his ribs too badly. The door closed shut behind him and Sam had an irrational urge to whisper _‘Traitor’_ in Bumblebee’s direction, but he didn’t have the chance before Ratchet was kneeling down in front of him.

A flat blue light emitted from Ratchet’s optics as his medical scan swept over Sam’s body.

“How are you feeling?” The medic asked with his usual brisk, no-nonsense manner.

Sam shrugged, “Exactly like I look.” He replied wryly, because Sam knew he looked and felt like shit.

“Care to be more specific?” Ratchet prompted, dryly.

Deciding that honesty was the best way to escape Ratchet’s scrutiny, Sam answered, “My burns hurt the most. My ribs are okay if I don’t move suddenly. If I do, the pain is pretty spectacular.” As an afterthought, Sam added, “And every muscle in my body hurts.”

Ratchet’s optics shuttered thoughtfully, and then the fingers of one hand split apart into a dozen delicate instruments and Ratchet was reaching for him.

Sam was blindsided by the terror that surged through his body in an instant. Although the rational part of his mind knew that this was _Ratchet_, and that the medic would never hurt him, another part of his mind was right back in the warehouse with Scalpel’s spindly legs pricking into his chest and its needle-like appendages waving in his face. Sam recalled the little bot’s terrible words with perfect clarity, _‘Ve must haff ze brain on ze table!’_

Ratchet froze as soon as his sensors detected the surge of adrenaline and Sam’s increased heart rate. He withdrew his hand immediately and asked, concerned, “Sam?”

Sam sucked a harsh breath of air through his teeth, “Sorry.” He managed, coming back to himself, “You surprised me.”

Ratchet looked at him, expression intense and considering, before speaking, “I’m going to lift your shirt and look at your dressings. Dr. McNeil has briefed me on the condition of your injuries, but I would prefer to do my own assessment.” Ratchet raised his hand again to indicate he was about to approach, watching for any sign that Sam was about to balk. Sam gritted his teeth, willing himself not to move as Ratchet’s instruments plucked at the cloth of Sam’s shirt and lifted.

To Sam’s surprise, Ratchet continued his narration, voice low and measured, “I’m looking to see if there is any drainage from your burns—you can see that these bandages have a reddish tinge, indicating there was discharge overnight. That’s normal and to be expected.” The lens of Ratchet’s left optic whirled and extended slightly, “My scans detected no signs of malignant bacteria, and my visual inspection confirms that the skin along the edges of your burns is healthy looking and uninflamed.

Ratchet replaced Sam’s shirt, and grasped his left arm gingerly by the wrist, turning it slightly. The medic learned closer, optic whirling again, to inspect the burns on Sam’s upper arm. These hadn’t been as bad as his chest and remained un-bandaged.

“These burns are less serious. How do they feel?”

Sam had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he answered, “Tight but not very painful.”

Ratchet let go of his arm and withdrew his hand. He looked at Sam intently a moment before saying, “This may feel odd.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask for clarification, when a glitchy-red scan emanated from Ratchet’s optic and swept him from head to toe. He took a step back in surprise, because Ratchet had been right: it was a distinctly odd feeling, like television static and white noise had combined to tingle over every inch of his body. Sam was decidedly not a fan of the sensation, but before he could open his mouth to protest, Ratchet’s head jerked back and his optics shuttered in shock at whatever he found.

Unnerved by the medic’s reaction, Sam asked uncertainly, “What? Do I have cancer or something? Because I have to say, it will be a cosmic joke if a malignant tumor is what kills me.”

Ratchet snorted in response, back to his usual self, “No, Sam, you do not have cancer. Other than your injuries, you are in perfect health.”

“Well, okay then. That’s good.”

The medic rose to his feet, regarding Sam closely and said, “Go straight to Dr. McNeil so he can change your bandages. I have notified him that you are on your way.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure. Thanks Ratchet.” Sam said, still uncertain. Bee’s door popped open and a burst of song played out of the radio,

_“Let’s ride, let’s ride, let’s ride. Hop in the front seat.”_

Sam glanced over his shoulder and noted that the observation deck was over half the length of the ship away and, thankful for the lift, he eased back into the driver’s seat. As Bee’s engine turned over, Sam glanced through the windshield and saw that Ratchet was standing next to Optimus, who was now in his bi-pedal form. Although Sam could not hear a word they were saying, he had the distinct impression that they were talking about him. Then Bumblebee was turning away, accelerating down the length of the battleship, and both ‘bots disappeared behind the cover of camo tarp and a wall of containers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bee knew exactly what he was doing. 
> 
> If you are interested in reading his perspective of the end of this chapter, see Chapter 1 of [Signature - Vignettes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649654)


	4. Chapter 4

Bee slowed to a stop in front of the flight deck door, and Sam was surprised to see Tall and Serious standing at attention, his M4 held across his chest. Had he been out here all night?

Sam carefully extradited himself from the driver’s seat, and ran his hand appreciatively over the Camaro’s gleaming exterior before Bee reversed several feet to let him pass. Sam nodded to Tall and Serious as he approached, and the solider inclined his head to his side. Sam looked down and was surprised to see his sneakers on the deck, retrieved from where he had left them in his room the night before. Feeling a mixture of embarrassment and appreciation, Sam murmured his thanks and toed his shoes on quickly.

“Where to, kid?” Tall and Serious asked, voice neutral.

“They’re expecting me in the hospital ward.” Sam replied, a note of apology in his voice. It seemed demeaning for a decorated solider to be expected to babysit a civilian. Tall and Serious nodded once, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then opened the door with a well-practiced motion. Sam glanced back at Bumblebee, raising one hand in a silent gesture of farewell, before he stepped inside. The solider walked briskly down the narrow hallway and descended the first flight of stairs. Sam followed, walking closely behind him.

“So what’s your name, anyway?” Sam asked attempting to draw the solider into a conversation.

“Lieutenant Richmond.” He replied.

“What do you do around here?”

“Logistics.” Richmond replied tersely. It wasn’t difficult to infer from his demeanor and response that the solider had no interest in small talk, so Sam fell silent. It was the better part of ten minutes before he recognized the entrance to the hospital ward. Lieutenant Richmond took up post outside of the door, and Sam walked inside. It was the same as he remembered: sterile white, neat rows of hospital beds and curtains, and tall, locked cabinets lining the walls. The smell of disinfectant and cleanser hung suspended in the recycled air. A solider looked up from her deskwork, and smiled as he approached.

“Dr. McNeil has been waiting for you,” She said, and judging by her teasing tone, Sam guessed the doctor wasn’t particularly happy about it.

“You know how it is,” Sam said, waving his hand vaguely, “Some days you just can’t get out of bed.”

That earned him a genuine laugh, and she motioned for Sam to hop up on one of the hospital beds. A small orange tray of medical supplies already sat waiting on the bedside table, and Sam sighed in resignation. He clambered up quickly, sitting with his legs hanging over the side of the bed, and pulled his t-shirt off over his head. The hospital corpsman was pulling on white, latex gloves when the doctor appeared in the door of his office.

“Good morning, Sam.” He greeted as he approached, pulling the stethoscope from around his shoulders, “How did you sleep?”

The doctor warmed the metal against his palm for a moment before pressing the stethoscope to Sam’s chest, listening.

“Good.” Sam shrugged.

“Was that before or after your trip to the flight deck?” The doctor replied, moving the stethoscope to the other side of his chest. Sam didn’t know how to reply to that question, and so he opted for silence instead. Let the doctor interpret that however he wanted.

“Deep breath, Sam. Again… and again.” Sam obeyed the doctor’s instructions, though he grimaced hard when his ribs throbbed in pain.

Seeing his expression, the doctor asked, “On a scale of one to ten, with one being an itch and ten being set on fire while stung to death by angry bees, how much pain are you in?”

A genuine smile pulled at the corner of Sam’s lips, his opinion of the doctor warming considerably.

“I’d say somewhere between a four and five if I don’t move, a six if I breathe too deep, and an eleven if I twist the wrong way.” He replied truthfully.

The doctor nodded, his suspicions confirmed. “I told you to stay on top of your pain management,” He admonished as the hospital corpsman wrapped a blood pressure cuff tightly around his good bicep. She began rhythmically pumping the bulb to inflate it; after a moment, she glanced at the pressure gauge and made a note in the chart.

Sam shrugged, because what could he possibly say? _Sorry, I was busy having a total mental breakdown, and I forgot to set a reminder on my phone?_ Not likely.

The doctor plucked two paper cups from the bedside table and handed them to him. The smaller of the two contained three pills, and the larger of the two was half-filled with water. Sam glanced at the doctor, looking for an explanation.

“Antibiotics and painkillers. Given the time since you last medicated, I’ve prescribed a mild opiate to help you get on top of your pain. You can take your ibuprofen in four hours, as usual.”

Sam nodded mutely and swallowed the pills down with a mouthful of water.

The doctor pulled on a pair of white gloves, and motioned for Sam to lay back on the bed.

“Sorry.” The doctor apologized in advance, and then he started pulling at the edges of the bandages on Sam’s upper torso. The adhesive peeled away slowly, pulling at the burnt flesh underneath, and Sam had to grit his teeth to keep from making a sound. The doctor and the corpsman worked quickly and efficiently, removing bandages, assessing his wounds, applying ointment, and re-bandaging him without speaking more than a few words to one another. The bandages on his upper chest were the first to be replaced, then the ones on his left side under his armpit (those had _hurt_). The pile of dirty bandages grew larger as they worked; some looked relatively PG-13, but others were disgusting, stained with blood and other bodily fluids. Sam tried to look anywhere else but the incriminating pile, physical evidence of how close he had come to making this trip home in a wooden box instead of in steerage.

The bandages on his neck and shoulder were next, and they had him roll onto his side so they could get at the burns that extended down to his left shoulder blade. By this time the painkillers had kicked in, and Sam was feeling much better about the whole situation. He was feeling better about pretty much everything, as a matter of fact.

The doctor must have noticed the expression on his face because he asked dryly, “Feeling better?”

“A-plus-plus, Doctor.” Sam confirmed good-naturedly.

The doctor and the corpsman shared an amused smile while they worked. In short order, they handed him his shirt and told him to get dressed. The hospital corpsman disappeared with the pile of dirty bandages, while the doctor scribbled notes on his chart. The corpsman returned in no time at all bearing a tray of food—cold toast, yogurt, fruit salad, cinnamon roll, carton of milk—which she set on the overbed table and pushed toward him.

Sam looked from her, to the tray of food, and back again, and said with complete sincerity, “You are an angel sent from heaven.”

She laughed brightly at his comment and walked back to her desk. The doctor had finished writing and held the metal chart against his chest as he watched Sam tuck into his breakfast. The doctor waited until Sam was finishing the last of the fruit salad before he said, apropos of nothing, “You’re scheduled for a psych-eval in twenty minutes.”

Sam paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, caught completely off guard by the doctor’s comment. The previous warmth he had felt towards the man evaporated in an instant.

“What?” He asked, surprised by the coldness in his voice. The doctor raised an eyebrow, and Sam could tell he was assessing his reaction.

"A psych-eval. They’re standard procedure for military personnel after intense combat situations, especially ones that result in allied losses.”

“I’m not military personnel.” He replied flatly, setting down his fork. His heart was starting to beat faster in his chest.

“No, you’re not,” The doctor agreed, “But you went through a traumatic situation and it will help to talk to someone about it.”

“Not a chance.” Sam refused, voice low and hard, and he pushed away the remainder of his breakfast.

“You died, Sam.” The doctor said bluntly, “And you watched other people die too. That would have an impact on anyone, let alone an eighteen-year-old civilian.”

Sam felt inexplicable fury flood through him in an instant, outraged at the doctor’s audacity. He had made it through Mission City, hadn’t he? How dare this man, a complete stranger, judge him?

He took a moment to steady himself before speaking, “I’m not going, and you can’t make me.” His voice sounded calm and reasonable. Good.

The doctor’s eyebrows rose to his hairline and he replied coolly, “Actually, yes, I can. I am the Chief Medical Officer on board this ship. My orders regarding the physical and mental welfare of my passengers and crew are non-negotiable.”

Sam stared at the doctor in disbelief, his heart pounding hard now. The idea of talking to anyone about what he had experienced was intolerable, but the idea of talking about his _feelings_ about what had happened was completely unbearable. Sam opened his mouth to argue, his eyes narrowing in anger, but the doctor was calling over his shoulder.

“Lieutenant Richmond?”

Tall and Serious stepped into the doorway and snapped off a crisp salute.

“Sir. Yes sir?”

“Mr. Witwicky has an appointment in Lieutenant Commander Anderson’s office in fifteen minutes. Please see to it that he arrives on time.” The doctor’s command brooked no argument, and Sam realized that he was going to that appointment whether he liked it or not. The doctor turned back to him and said plaintively as he climbed down off the hospital bed, “Give it a chance, Sam. It can help.”

Sam’s spine stiffened painfully, and he walked by the doctor without a word in reply. When he approached Richmond, the Lieutenant turned on his heel and stepped into the hallway. Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and reluctantly followed. Richmond led him through the ship, passing virtually identical corridors, hatchways, and staircases. Sam took the time to collect himself, breathing in through his nose and out of his mouth, trying to get his thundering heart to stop beating so erratically in his chest.

'_Maybe this won’t be so bad.’_ Sam thought to himself, desperately. _‘In and out, half an hour tops, then I’ll be rubberstamped and on my way.’_

Eventually Richmond stopped in front of a nondescript door and knocked politely. There was only a moment’s pause before a middle-aged woman in military uniform opened the door. Richmond snapped off another sharp salute and stood aside. The woman turned her gaze to Sam and, smiling in welcome, gestured for him to enter the office.

“Sam. Please, come in.”

Sam thought briefly about declining, but he wasn’t keen to test how far Richmond would go to follow the orders of a senior officer. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped past the Lieutenant Commander with all the enthusiasm of a man approaching the gallows. Like every other room on the ship, the office was small. Filing cabinet, desk, two chairs. Sam noticed the nondescript box of tissues beside the computer monitor and his mouth downturned, hard.

“Please, sit down.” The Lieutenant Commander said as she took a seat, gesturing to the empty chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Sam sat down carefully, mindful of his ribs, and then looked at her, waiting.

“My name is Karen Anderson. I am one of the clinical psychologists on the ship speaking with people who were in Egypt.” She clasped her hands together on the desk and leaned forward, “I would like to talk with you about what you experienced.”

Sam stared at her expectantly, feeling his heart beating hard against his ribs. Even more so than last night, Sam felt trapped in this room and it had nothing to do with its size.

“I’ve read that you started university this year. Princeton. That’s very impressive, Sam. What are you studying?”

Sam blinked in surprise. Whatever question he had been expecting, that hadn’t been it.

“I was studying astronomy,” He replied after a moment, “Past tense. I can’t imagine Princeton will be welcoming me back after I got their library destroyed and a bunch of students killed.”

The Lieutenant Commander tilted her head in consideration, “That must be difficult, after you had worked so hard to get accepted.” There was no pity or sympathy in her voice. It was merely an observation.

“Yes.” Sam conceded, because that much would be obvious to anyone.

“How did you first meet the Autobots?”

“Excuse me, but what does that have to do with Egypt?” He asked, frowning.

“This isn’t a debriefing, Sam.” She responded gently, “We aren’t here for you to recall everything that happened over the last two days. We are here to understand how you’re coping with what happened in Egypt. That requires we dig a little deeper into all that has happened over the last two years.”

Sam stared at her in disbelief before huffing a mirthless laugh. Oh, he was coping famously.

“So,” The Lieutenant Commander prompted, “How did you meet them?” At his uncertain expression she clarified with a small upturn of her lips, “I assure you, I have the appropriate security clearances and I’ve been fully briefed. Anything you say is safe with me.”

“Oh?” Sam asked sarcastically, gesturing between the two of them, “So all of this is HIPAA protected?”

“Yes.” She answered automatically, completely serious. “Nothing you say in this room will be disclosed to anyone, unless you give me permission to do so.”

“I don’t.” Sam replied flatly.

“Well then, we can continue our conversation unimpeded by concerns about privacy.”

“I don’t want to have a ‘conversation’ with you at all.” Sam replied, distantly surprised by his rudeness.

She smiled broadly, “You aren’t the first person on the other side of this desk to say so.”

Sam switched tactics, “If you’ve been fully briefed than you should already know how I met the Autobots.”

She nodded, conceding his point.

“I know the facts. I know that Bumblebee made contact with you, that he protected you from an enemy combatant, designation Barricade, and that be brought you to meet the other Autobots, who enlisted your help in finding the Allspark. But I want to know your perspective, Sam.”

Sam frowned, taking in her words.

“That’s about the gist of it.” He said after a moment.

“Barricade’s attack must have been frightening. You were sixteen years old.” She said, and Sam turned her words over in his mind, trying to decipher her ulterior motive.

“It wasn’t awesome.” He replied.

“I’m sure. And Bumblebee saved you.”

“Yeah, he did. He got us away from that overpass and then he kicked Barricade’s aft all over that construction site.”

“You owe him a lot.” She observed.

“I owe him my life.” Sam replied automatically, before he caught the possible implication of his words.

“A life-debt, that’s no small thing.”

“If you say so.” Sam replied, discomforted.

“Is that why you agreed to help Optimus Prime recover the Matrix of Leadership?”

Sam gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white, resenting the implication that Optimus manipulated him—intentionally or not—to get Sam’s help.

“I didn’t agree to help Optimus. He asked me and I turned him down. It got him killed.” Sam’s voice didn’t falter, but only just.

“The mission debrief that Optimus Prime provided our government says that he died battling Megatron and four other hostile combatants. Not even Optimus Prime can expect to last long against those odds.”

“He was there in the first place because of me. The Pretender targeted me because the Allspark was in my head. Megatron took us because he wanted what was in my head. And Optimus Prime died to protect what was in my head. If I had helped him when he asked me, he would never had been in that situation in the first place.”

The Lieutenant Commander’s expression sharpened.

“You believe Optimus Prime died to protect what was in your head? Not to protect _you_?”

Her question drew him up short, and he frowned as he considered what she had asked.

“No,” He said slowly, “No, I don’t believe that. Optimus would have sacrificed himself to save me, even if I didn’t have the Allspark rattling around in my mind.”

“Bumblebee saved you from Barricade. Optimus saved you from Sector 7. Optimus also saved your life in Mission City. Bumblebee agreed to be your guardian to protect you against future threats from the Decepticons. It seems like that’s a lot of debt to repay, Sam.”

“If you have a point you had better get there fast.” Sam replied tightly.

“Sam,” The psychologist said, not unkindly, “Based on everything that I have read about you, I believe you to be an exceptionally loyal young man. You believe you owe the Autobots your life. I also think you carry a tremendous amount of guilt because you believe your actions resulted in Optimus Prime’s death. Some people might think that would affect your opinion of the Autobots.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed in anger. He learned forward, his voice as cold as the North Atlantic in winter.

“I think that the United States government should be on its knees thanking Optimus Prime for what he and the Autobots have done for this planet. It was the Autobots who defended Mission City. It was the Autobots who worked with NEST to track down and destroy Decepticons, even though the government criticized their actions and questioned their motives at every turn. It was Optimus who sacrificed himself for a human, and it was Optimus who killed the Fallen moments before he destroyed our sun. We would all be dead right now if it wasn’t for the Autobots.”

The psychologist looked at him considerately, “But it was you who helped the Autobots find the Allspark. It was you who killed Megatron in Mission City. It was you who found the Matrix of Leadership, and it was you who saved Optimus Prime’s life.” She paused for a fraction of a second, “Even though you died doing so.”

Sam met the Lieutenant Commander’s eyes for the first time since stepping into her office, and replied with sincere conviction, “And I would do it again.” 

“If you don’t distance yourself from the Autobots, you likely will.”

He flinched hard, surprised by the way her words made his chest tighten in denial… and in fear. With sudden clarity, Sam realized just how expertly he had been maneuvered.

“Sam, I am going to ask you a series of yes or no questions. Please answer as honestly as you can, and then we’ll be done. Have you had any thoughts about suicide or self-harm?”

Sam resisted the urge to point out that he’d just come back from the dead, and instead answered truthfully. “No.”

“Have you heard voices or seen things that no one else can see—excepting alien symbols floating around in your mind, of course.”

“No.”

“Have you engaged in atypical recklessness or self-destructive behavior?”

Sam started to feel better about the line of questioning, “No.”

“Have you had trouble sleeping? Whether falling asleep or staying asleep?”

“…yes.”

“Have you experienced intense irritability or outbursts of anger that are disproportionate to the situation?”

Thinking about his behavior in the doctor’s office earlier, Sam was forced to concede, “Yes.”

“Do you feel on guard all the time? Like a possible threat could strike at any moment?”

All at once, Sam realized exactly what she was doing. Slumping back in the chair like his strings had been cut, he rubbed his good hand over his face and took a shaky breath.

“Sam?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Do you frequently have distressing memories or dreams?”

Sam’s voice was inflectionless. “Yes.”

“Have you experienced intense physical or emotional distress when you’ve been exposed to things that remind you of the events you experienced?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had the experience that you are re-living the event? Experiencing it as though for the first time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you avoid thoughts, feelings, or conversations about your experiences?” At Sam’s flat look, she nodded in concession and wrote something down on her notepad. When she looked up again, the psychologist’s expression was soft.

“Sam, you know what I am going to tell you.”

“Please don’t.” He wasn’t begging, but it was a near thing.

“Sam. You are experiencing a perfectly normal reaction to a life-threatening trauma.”

Sam took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling a long moment before responding, his voice tight, “I appreciate what you’re doing, but I can’t talk about this with you. I can’t talk about this at all.”

“It’s not going to get better on its own, Sam.” She replied, gently.

“Are we done here?” His voice was sharper than he intended, but the psychologist didn’t look offended. Mercifully, she nodded.

“We are. For now.”

Sam was on his feet in an instant, and she followed his lead. The Lieutenant Commander walked around the desk to the door, and swung it open for him. Richmond snapped to attention the moment he came into view.

“It was nice to meet you, Sam.” She smiled at him.

“Yeah, sure. Back at you, Lieutenant Commander.” He said uncomfortably.

“Please, call me Karen. We will speak again, Sam.” She said before she stepped back into her office, shutting the door.

Sam heaved a weary sigh, wincing as his ribs flared in pain, and glanced at Richmond.

“Where to now?”

“Are you hungry?” Richmond asked.

“No.”

“Then I’ll take you back to your room.” He replied.

All at once, Sam was aware of his aching and exhausted body. For the first time in his life, the prospect of being sent to his room was entirely welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My version of 'Sam beats the smug off of Galloway's face', based on Steelfeather's chapter.

When Sam was a young child, the threat of being sent to his room was a tactic that his parents had employed well and often. The prospect of sitting idle and bored had seemed awful to his younger self, a thing to be avoided at all costs. But now, as Sam waved good-bye to Richmond and pushed the door shut behind him, he felt profoundly relieved to be alone.

The appointment with the psychologist had gone worse than he’d expected, Sam thought bitterly. He knew that he was dealing with a mountain of emotional bullshit—feelings that were too unfathomable and intense for him to untangle—but he was desperate to compartmentalize, to avoid remembering. To go back to normal.

He pushed away from the door and began to pace in the small room.

The Autobots were millions of years old, and they had been fighting this war for longer than human civilization had existed. Sam knew his experiences paled in comparison, and he was loathe to make himself appear any more weak or inconvenient than he’d already managed. Sam took a harsh breath and scrubbed his hand over his face. Besides, if Epps and Lennox had made it through Egypt without losing their shit, then so could he.

The door to his room opened with a metallic groan, and Sam jerked hard in surprise. To his mingled relief and happiness, Mikaela stuck her head into his room.

“There you are.” She said by way of greeting, stepping fully inside.

“Hey ‘Kaela.” He replied as he stepped close to her, his hands wrapping gently around her waist.

“How’s Bumblebee?” She asked. At his confused expression, she explained, “When you weren’t in your room this morning, your mom and dad went looking for you. Williams told them that you went to the flight deck last night.”

Feeling embarrassed, Sam grimaced. 

“He’s good. The others are too, though Arcee will need some work when they get back to Diego Garcia. Bee says she’ll be fine, though.”

“That’s good news.” She murmured, pressing fully against him. Sam couldn’t reply for a moment, caught off-guard by the warm feeling that bloomed in his chest at her proximity. 

“Want to talk about it?” She asked after a moment had passed. 

“Not really, no.” He replied, tucking his chin against the side of her head.

“Okay.” She replied simply, and Sam felt a rush of gratitude in response. Mikaela understood. She’d always understood. 

“…Sam?” Mikaela murmured into his neck.

“Yeah?”

“You need a shower. Badly.”

At her words Sam pulled back, embarrassed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. It’s been a weird morning.”

A wry smirk pulled at the corners of her lips, “Uh huh. Let’s go introduce you to a bar of soap.”

With that, Mikaela wrapped his good hand in her own and pulled him towards the door. Sam let himself be guided out of the room and down the hallway in the opposite direction than he’d walked last night. When Mikaela stepped through the hatch at the end of the corridor, Sam recognized Williams standing at attention on the other side of the door. Beside him stood a soldier that Sam didn’t recognize; tall and pale with a headful of copper hair.

“Good morning Mikaela, Sam.” Williams greeted good-naturedly.

“Morning Robin.” She greeted back.

Sam blinked in surprise before he asked, disbelievingly, “Wait, is your name seriously Robin Williams?” 

If the expression on Williams’ face was anything to go by, it was hardly the first time he’d been asked that question. In a considerably cooler tone of voice, Williams asked, “Where to?”

Sam winced at him in apology as Mikaela answered, “Sam wants a shower.”

Williams nodded and gestured for them to follow as he turned around and started walking; Mikaela and Sam fell into step behind him. It was no time at all before they entered a large barracks. Two long rows of bunkbeds lined opposite walls, each bed was identically made; blue blankets tucked tight, crisp corners, and white sheets. Williams led them down the narrow space between the beds to a tiled area in the back of the room. As they got closer Sam saw narrow shower stalls with long, white curtains arranged opposite a row of gleaming metal sinks. Williams opened a floor-to-ceiling cabinet and started handing him items: starchy white towel, washcloth, and a small puck of oatmeal-colored soap.

“Wait here.” He said briskly. He walked back the way he came, stopping in front of a bunkbed half-way down the row, and pulled out a footlocker from underneath the bottom mattress. He rummaged inside of it for a moment, before turning around and coming back with a bundle of navy blue cloth. Upon inspection, Sam realized that it was a long-sleeved shirt with the USS Theodore Roosevelt emblem stitched on the left breast.

“It’s the only size I’ve got.” He said by way of apology, “And I can’t do anything about pants.”

“It’s great, thank-you.” Sam said appreciatively.

“There’s not a lot of hot water on the ship, so be prepared for a cold shower.” Williams warned.

Sam nodded and opened the nearest shower curtain, stepping inside. He placed the linens on the small metal shelf set in the wall and shucked his clothes as quickly as possible. Sam looked curiously at the shower set-up. There was a dial for a temperature gauge—he turned the arrow to the “warm” setting—but there was no valve to turn to start the flow of water. Sam looked around confusedly for a moment before he noticed a black rubber button set in the wall. Curiously, Sam pushed it and yelped loudly as a stream of cold water cascaded down his back. The water stopped as soon as he released the button.

“I warned you.” Came Williams’ raised voice, amused, from some distance away.

Steeling himself, Sam compressed the button long enough to let water pour over his head and shoulders. Once he was good and wet, he grabbed the bar of soap and lathered up, shivering in the cool air. He grabbed the washcloth next and, after turning the water on long enough to soak it through, he drew it over his face and chest, mindful of his injuries. Three days’ worth of sweat and grime sluiced off his body and down the drain. Shivering in earnest now, Sam compressed the button one last time and stood under the cold spray, rinsing the soap off his skin.

Grabbing his towel, Sam dried himself awkwardly in the narrow confines of the stall. He was still dripping water when he pulled on his underwear and pants, and then he pushed the curtain aside. Sam stepped out of the shower and pulled the navy shirt over his head, before leaning against the counter to put on his socks and shoes. He glanced down the length of the barracks and noticed Williams was sitting on the bed from underneath which he had retrieved the shirt; Mikaela sat on the bed across the aisle from him. Sam walked towards them as he rubbed the towel over his hair.

“Hey, is there a commissary on this ship?” Sam asked, and when Williams nodded he inquired further, “Any chance they have phone chargers?”

The solider nodded, “Yeah, sure. They’re shitty, but they’ll work for a month or two.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask whether Williams would take them, when he remembered he didn’t have his wallet, and therefore no way to purchase anything. He frowned, stymied.

Seeing his expression, Williams sighed in exasperation and offered, “I can spot you.”

Though the words were curt, Williams was smiling at him. 

“Alright, well, where should I put this?” Sam asked, gesturing to the towel.

Williams took the towel from him and walked back to the bathroom area, disappearing momentarily, then he was walking back. The soldier glanced at the watch on his wrist as he approached.

“Alright, let’s go to the commissary, and then I will take you to the mess for an early lunch.”

Williams walked out of the barracks, and they followed closely behind. Sam had given up trying to pay attention to the route they were taking; each corridor was identical—the same colors and features and lighting. It was impossible to keep track of where he was heading. 

“The commissary is alright,” Williams explained over his shoulder, “There’s the standard items—food and toiletries, some books, random stuff—but it’s pricey. Captive audience and all that.”

Sam winced and opened his mouth to apologize for the imposition, but Williams was waving him off. 

“It’s fine. It’s all on Uncle Sam’s dime.”

Sam nodded slowly, finding the answer simultaneously reassuring and perplexing.

Williams opened the next port door with a well-practiced turn of his hands, and then stopped short. Standing on the other side was a military police officer in full uniform, with a seriously put-upon expression on his face. The most likely reason for the officer’s sour mood stood directly behind him in a cheap suit and ugly tie—Galloway. Sam felt himself stiffen instantly, his eyes narrowing in disdain.

Surprise flashed across the politician’s face for a split-second before his features settled into his usual arrogant expression. Galloway stepped through the door, and the MP followed behind him. Sam felt a brief twist of satisfaction that the self-important bureaucrat had to be escorted around the ship, the same as him.

“Good morning, Samuel.” Galloway greeted, but there was nothing friendly about his tone. After the dust had settled in Egypt, Lennox had pulled Sam aside and told him about Galloway's intention to hand him over to Megatron. At first, Sam hadn't believed him, unwilling to accept that a fellow American and an elected official would willingly send an eighteen-year-old civilian to certain death. It wasn't until the bureaucrat had been retrieved from the desert and Sam had actually met the man that he realized Lennox had been right. Galloway would have _definitely_ handed him over, if it served the politician's self interests.

“I have nothing to say to you, Galloway.” Sam replied, coldly. 

Galloway’s expression arranged itself into one of neat surprise. “Is that so? I heard that you had plenty to say to Dr. Anderson.”

Sam felt his heart freeze in his chest, the sudden surge of anxiety making him nauseous. For a split second, his worst fears had come true—Galloway _knew._ He knew just how fucked up Sam had been since Egypt, he knew—

—but no, that made no sense, he realized. Anderson had said she wouldn’t disclose anything they discussed, and Sam had trusted her. He felt almost lightheaded at how quickly his anxiety flashed into anger. Galloway didn’t know shit, he was just being an asshole.

“Let’s go, Mikaela.” Sam said tightly, but Galloway was speaking again, false concern in his voice.

“I was so relieved when I heard you decided to get some counseling, Sam. Anyone who would willingly associate with those aliens clearly requires professional assistance.”

Sam went very still. He was distantly aware of Mikaela speaking to him, low and urgent, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“Stop talking, Galloway.” His tone was midnight black, but his voice was perfectly steady.

Galloway pushed his hands into his pockets, his posture loose and relaxed, clearly enjoying Sam’s reaction.

“I don’t think I will. I warned Congress that the Autobots were a national security risk. Now the House Oversight Committee will be convening in three days, and the only item on the agenda is the Autobot issue. As it turns out, I have a lot to say on the matter.”

Sam felt his heart beating hard in his chest, hot rage burning him from the inside out.

“A national security risk?” Sam repeated, anger and sarcasm making the words come out sharp, “I’d say that killing the Fallen and saving our sun is pretty much the opposite of a national security risk.”

Galloway stepped close, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed Williams stiffen.

“The days of unaccountability are over,” Galloway hissed, “The Autobots will come to heel or they will be dealt with accordingly.”

Mikaela’s hands were on his chest now, “Sam. Sam, let’s go.”

“Are you seriously that stupid and short-sighted? The Decepticons aren’t going away—_ever_. Even if you killed every one of them, more will keep coming because Megatron sent a homing signal into space. The Autobots are the only thing standing between us and them. Get with the fucking program, Galloway.”

His words seemed to anger the older man, whose eyes narrowed as he replied, “Then it’s a shame that Sector-7 didn’t finish what it had started with the yellow one.”

Sam was moving before he fully registered the words. Fisting his burnt hand in Galloway’s shirt, Sam punched the older man across the face with every ounce of his strength. Galloway’s head snapped to the side and Sam pushed him roughly against the wall, his arm across his throat. It was only then that he realized he was screaming, manic with rage, in the politician’s face.

“If you touch him, if you _hurt_ him, I will kill you! Do you hear me, Galloway? I will _kill_ you. _Do you fucking understand me?_” 

Sam was only peripherally aware of the other people in the corridor. The MP was pulling at his hands, trying to disentangle him from the politician. Williams and Mikaela were both talking, their voices raised and urgent, their hands on his body. But Sam didn’t let go of Galloway—he couldn’t. Within those beady hazel eyes, currently blown wide with shock, Sam saw everything he feared the most: the loss of his best friend and guardian; his failure to protect that which he cherished most in this world; the terror and guilt he’d felt when Optimus’ optics had darkened in the forest. So Sam held tight, overcome with fury and desperation in equal measures.

Evidentially, the MP had had enough. Grabbing Sam across the chest with one arm, he balled up a fist and jabbed it sharply into Sam’s side. The punch obviously wasn’t meant to seriously injure him, but the moment it made contact with his ribs, Sam went down like a hanged man with the rope cut. Not expecting his sudden surrender, the MP did not react quickly enough to catch him, and Sam hit the floor—hard. The sudden contact made his ribs scream in agony, and Sam wrapped his arm tightly around his torso, his other hand clutching reflexively at the metal floor. Mikaela was on her knees in an instant, one arm flung over his back and her other hand on his chest, helping him struggle into a sitting position. His vision blurred with tears and he gasped for air, trying not to puke all over her. Distantly, Sam hoped that Bumblebee didn’t have a sensor trained on him, or else the yellow scout would certainly conclude that he was being murdered.

Galloway had evidentially recovered from his shock at Sam’s sudden attack, because he was yelling at the MP, “Officer, I want this man arrested and charged with assault!”

“Battery.” Sam corrected from the floor, his voice wrecked.

Galloway looked down at him, murder on his face, “What?”

“You meant battery, though you’d have me on the assault charge too.”

Williams hooked his hands under Sam’s arms and helped pull him to his feet. Sam leaned against the taller man, heavily.

“You okay?” He asked, concernedly.

“Never better.” Sam rasped. The agonizing burn in his chest felt like a victory.

“Officer, are you going to arrest him or not?” Galloway demanded. The MP’s mouth down-turned, clearly irritated at being ordered about by the man. The officer waffled for a moment, but then seemed to come to a decision. He looked at Sam grimly.

“Can you walk?” He asked as he approached, pulling a pair of handcuffs off his belt.

“Are you serious, Lassiter?” Williams snapped, “He was asking for it.”

“He broke the law, Williams.” Lassiter replied tightly, “You can take it up with the brig officer.”

Sam felt a flash of incredulity—there was a brig onboard the ship? An actual _brig_? Like in Star Trek?—but then he was being pushed face-first into the wall and his arms were handcuffed tightly behind his back.

In full control of his mental faculties once again after his freak-out, Sam protested over his shoulder, “You don’t have the authority to arrest me! I’m a civilian.”

“We can arrest anyone who commits a crime on federal soil.” Lassiter replied coolly, pulling Sam away from the wall.

“We’re not _on_ federal soil!” Sam argued back.

“Shut up, smart ass.” The MP snapped as he started pushing Sam down the corridor. 

Mikaela made to follow them, but Williams put a restraining hand on her shoulder. As the MP pushed Sam through the hatch door, he turned around and said, “Galloway is due to meet with Rear Admiral Turetsky. Take him now.”

Williams face was unreadable as he replied, stiffly, “Yes sir.”

Sam let himself be pushed along through the ship, well aware of the consequences of pissing off this man. Though they did not speak, the MP was considerate enough to walk slowly, a courtesy Sam appreciated as every step lanced sharp pain across his chest. It was a small eternity before they approached a blue metal door with the words “USS Theodore Roosevelt – BRIG” printed in bold, gold letters. Lassiter let go of Sam’s arm long enough to open the hatch door, and then he guided him through the entryway and into the brig.

The corridors of the brig were pristine white, contrasting sharply against the black tiled floors. The MP led him down the hall and into a small receiving room, which was dominated by a tall desk. An older man with close-cut graying hair stood as they entered, surveying Sam up and down.

“What’s this now?” He asked.

“Assault and battery, Corporal.”

The older man pinned Sam with a disapproving look, frowning. 

“If you knew the guy, you’d understand.” Sam supplied, helpfully.

“Be quiet.” Lassiter snapped, giving his arm a hard shake.

“Put him down in special quarters. I’ll process him.” The Brig Officer’s tone implied that this entire situation was an unwelcome pain in his ass. It was a sentiment that Sam shared completely.

“Alright. Come on.” Lassiter said as he pulled Sam passed the desk and through an open gate of bright blue bars. They walked in silence to the end of the short passage, where the MP stopped in front of a nondescript door. Inside was perhaps the smallest room Sam had seen in his life. There was a bed with a single-sized mattress—blue sheets, white pillow—and that was it. It was perhaps three steps to the bed, and the bed took up the entire back wall of the room.

Lassiter pushed Sam passed the threshold. Once inside, he felt the MP step close, felt tugging on his wrists, and then his hands were free. He turned around and looked at the officer.

“Well, what now?” He asked.

“Now you sit your ass down. You can cool your heels in here until the Brig Officer decides otherwise.” Lassiter replied, stepping out of the room and closing the door without another word. A moment later, he heard a key in the lock.

Sam sighed and sat down carefully on the bed. He hurt all over; the pain medication he had received from the doctor that morning was doing nothing to touch it. He scrubbed his hand over his face and leaned back against the wall, realizing something with grim acceptance.

His father was going to kill him.

This was the second time that his father had to bail him out of jail, if the military even allowed bail in the first place. But this time, Sam had actually committed a crime, and he knew with certainty that Galloway was going to try to nail his ass to the wall. Although the thought of the bureaucrat trying to ruin his life made Sam laugh hollowly—what could that sorry bastard do to him that Megatron hadn’t already managed?—he knew criminal charges would give his father an aneurysm.

Sam winced as he shifted his position. His heart was beating strangely in his chest, lurching and pinching uncomfortably. He rolled his eyes, thinking it would be the perfect end to a shitty day if he dropped dead from a heart attack, when he noticed the camera.

Tucked in one corner of the ceiling, a small black camera was trained in his direction, its red light blinking steadily. Sam stared in disbelief for a heartbeat, two, before he groaned loudly in mortification, and covered his face with his hands. If the camera was part of the ship’s closed circuit television system—and Sam was willing to bet that it was—then he was sure that he was being watched by someone other than the Brig Officer. If Sam was very lucky, then it was only Bumblebee who was aware of his predicament.

Sam hadn’t been feeling particularly lucky lately.

After a moment, Sam lifted one hand and waved weakly in the direction of the camera without looking up. He found himself forced to revise his previous conclusion: if the Autobots were aware of what had happened, then _Ratchet_ was going to kill him.

Sam groaned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brig in this chapter was loosely based off of this video: [USS Nimitz Carrier Brig](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V0Sh3jjDdEE)


	6. Chapter 6

Sam sat quietly for a long while, his breathing the only sound in the small room. He avoided looking at the camera as much as possible, preferring to stare straight ahead. The embarrassment that Sam had felt when he first noticed the camera hadn’t abated in the least, and it was making the time crawl. He had already counted the number of tiles on the floor (ten) and the rivets in the door (twenty-seven). He was running out of ways to kill the time.

Sam wasn’t well versed on the rules and regulations regarding civilian incarceration onboard an aircraft carrier, but he assumed that he was going to be here for a while longer. The pain in his chest had become a real nuisance, burning hotly and throbbing in time with his pulse. He raised his hand and pressed it over his heart, willing the muscle to stop fluttering irregularly. The righteous rage that he’d felt when he’d punched Galloway was bleeding away, leaving him feeling shame and anxiety in equal measures.

Sam glanced surreptitiously at the camera; it was still blinking stoically at him in the corner. He wondered idly whether Optimus would intervene on his behalf. The Autobot leader held significant influence, with both the US government and the military, and Sam was certain that they would release him at Optimus’ request. Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, however, he realized that the Autobot leader would do no such thing. Optimus held human laws in high regard, and those laws now dictated that Sam be detained—though for how long, he couldn’t say. Besides, he knew the Autobot leader was a proponent of time-outs himself; Optimus had a history of ordering his soldiers to solitary confinement and even stasis lock as a disciplinary tactic. If Optimus was disappointed in Sam’s actions, then the Autobot leader was likely content to let him sit here awhile and think about what he’d done.

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by the metallic groan of his door as it opened. He was surprised to see a young woman in fatigues standing in the doorway, holding a small paper cup and a bottle of water.

“Uh… hello.” Sam greeted, lamely.

Without replying, the woman walked into the room and handed him the items. Sam glanced into the paper cup, relieved to see three small, unfamiliar looking pills. Pain medication, he was certain. He wondered briefly whether he had Dr. McNeil or Ratchet to thank for it. Using both hands to crack open the bottle, he swallowed the pills with a long drink of water. He glanced back at the solider when he’d finished, and was surprised to see that she had extended her hand to him. Sam blinked at her confusedly for a moment, before he realized that she wanted the water bottle back. Obediently, Sam capped the bottle and handed it to her. She took it and walked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her without a word.

Sam blinked in surprise at the strange interaction, and said loudly to the closed door, “Nice to meet you too.”

In the ensuing silence, his thoughts turned back to Optimus and he winced minutely. Sam was discomforted at the prospect of having disappointed the Autobot leader—perhaps even more so than the idea of disappointing his own father. The revelation made him shift uncomfortably. Optimus was kind and wise, a being of god-like compassion. He was just _Sam—_ordinary, boring, perfectly average Sam. It seemed to him that disappointing Optimus was an inevitable certainty, though one he now realized he was desperate to avoid.

Sam sighed heavily. If Optimus had thought that a little time alone might make Sam re-think his actions, then he’d been right. It had only taken the better part of an hour, too.

After an interminable amount of time, he braced his hands against the mattress and made to stand up when a wave of dizziness washed over him. Sitting back down with a grunt, he shook his head sharply, but the vertigo persisted. He blinked once, twice, but the lightheadedness only became more pronounced. He felt his heart lodge itself in his throat as his anxiety kicked into high gear—something was wrong. Sam opened his mouth to shout for assistance when his hand brushed against the crumpled paper cup. He glanced down dumbly, his fingers closing over the starchy paper. He stared for a long minute before comprehension slowly dawned. He wasn’t having a heart attack, it was the effects of the medication he’d taken.

Sam groaned softly as he fell back onto the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut.

_Definitely more than a mild opiate_, he thought dazedly.

The pain in his chest was fading to a periphery annoyance, and with it, his heartbeat slowly smoothed back into a normal rhythm. Sam scrubbed his hand over his face, though it was a substantial effort to get his heavy limbs to cooperate. The absence of pain was so sweet that it bordered on pleasure, and he was astonished to feel bone-deep drowsiness plucking at his consciousness, like a fly in a spider’s web. Sam lay there for a moment, drifting comfortably, when a sudden realization had him snap his eyes open.

This wasn’t the pain medication. He had been _sedated_. 

Sam knew instinctively that this was Ratchet’s doing. The short-tempered medic had the tendency to punish his more obstinate patients by forcing them into stasis lock for the duration of their treatment. He could imagine the medic's thought process so clearly he could almost hear the bot’s voice in his head: _sleep it off, you little shit, and stop trying to give yourself a heart attack._

“Oh Ratchet, you _asshole_.” He groaned.

Sam had the urge to glare at the camera, to do something to let the medic know exactly how he felt about his impropriety, but it was too late. The medication was cocooning him in a warm haze of _I-don’t-give-a-shit_, and all traces of anger were leeching away.

He sunk steadily down into the warm darkness of sleep, like a diver slipping beneath the waves without so much as a ripple.

* * *

  


Sam regained consciousness slowly, vaguely aware of an insistent sound.

“…up now. Wake up, Sam.” He felt someone shake his shoulder, and he opened his eyes blearily. The solider who had brought him the medication slowly came into focus.

“Sorry.” He apologized, voice rough, “Sorry, I’m awake.”

“Sit up. I brought you something to eat.” She said stiffly, though not unkindly.

Obediently, Sam pushed up onto his elbows and maneuvered into a sitting position. When he did so, the solider placed a cafeteria tray on the bed beside him. Glancing at its contents, Sam surmised that roast turkey was today’s lunch special.

Sam ran a hand over his face, rubbing his gritty eyes. “What time is it?” He asked.

“Just after nineteen-hundred hours.” She replied. At Sam’s blank look she clarified, “It’s 7:15.”

Sam wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “7:15?” He repeated in disbelief, “Like, at night?” 

She nodded, standing at parade rest and watching him closely. He did the mental math and came to the unwelcome realization that he had been asleep for over _eight hours_. His scratchy eyes and heavy, relaxed body were further evidence to support this conclusion.

Sam gritted his teeth in irritation. “Do you know how long I’m going to be in here?” He asked tightly, “I need to have a word with a passive aggressive, boundary stomping robot.”

“You’re being processed out after you’ve seen Dr. McNeil. He will be here shortly.” She replied, continuing to stare down at him.

“Okay, thanks.” He replied, as he considered her words. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing the doctor again, but he’d burn that bridge when he came to it. Sam reached over and pulled the tray into his lap. When the solider didn’t move, Sam glanced up at her in confusion.

“So, you’re just going to watch me eat or…?”

“Yes.”

Sam raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry, and when there was no answer forthcoming, he shrugged.

“Suit yourself.” Sam replied. He picked up the plastic cutlery on his tray, realizing all at once that he was ravenous. He started in on the food, lukewarm and obviously produced in large quantities, but he enjoyed it all the same. He surprised himself by cleaning his plate—even licking the last remnants of potatoes and gravy off his fork—before handing the tray back to the solider.

“Thanks. It was a five star dining experience.” He said, good-naturedly.

“Consider yourself lucky. Most detainees are given bread and water for their meals.”

Sam blinked in surprise, and asked in genuine curiosity, “Is that true?”

“It is, but you have some powerful friends in high places.”

The solider turned and stepped out of the room, making to shut the door behind her when something caught her attention at the end of the hall.

“Dr. McNeil.” She called down the corridor, “He’s in here.”

A moment later, the hospital corpsman stepped into view, carrying a familiar orange tray. Sam’s lips thinned in an unhappy line, remembering their previous encounter with perfect clarity.

“Good evening, Sam.” Greeted the doctor, no hint of apology or defensiveness in his tone.

“Doctor.” Sam replied, coolly.

The doctor stepped into the small room and placed the orange tray on the floor next to the bed. Pulling on a pair of disposable gloves with an unforgiving snap of latex on skin, he motioned for Sam to lie down. Sam breathed through his nose slowly, recognizing the futility of arguing with the man, and pulled the long-sleeved shirt over his head. Careful of the warning twinge in his ribs, he settled back against the mattress.

The doctor moved his hands over Sam’s chest, looking long and hard at his side, and applied pressure to his lower abdomen. He was assessing the bruise purpling his skin courtesy of the MP, Sam realized. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, the doctor bent to arrange the supplies on the tray. Straightening up, McNeil met his gaze.

“Sorry.” The doctor said, as he started pulling at the bandages on his chest.

Sam stiffened at the familiar pain of adhesive tugging at damaged flesh. Desperate for a distraction, he blurted out suddenly, “So, no stethoscope?”

The doctor’s gaze flicked to his face momentarily, before dropping back to his chest. “No need. Ratchet briefed me on your vitals before I came down.” He paused, as though considering his words, “It seems you’re none the worse for wear after your confrontation with Director Galloway.”

“I hope the same can’t be said for the Director.”

The doctor looked back at him, frowning in disapproval. “What do I need to say to make you understand the seriousness of your injuries?”

Caught wrong-footed by the doctor’s candidness, Sam replied. “I do understand.” When the doctor’s expression turned skeptical, Sam snapped, “I understand! You’re the one who scheduled me for a psych-eval! Don’t be surprised that I reacted like I did.”

The doctor looked at him considerately, and then he nodded. His gaze dropped back down as he worked at cleaning the burn on his upper chest.

“I was happy to hear that you spoke with Karen.” McNeil said after a moment, “That’s good, Sam.”

Sam glanced at the doctor, eyes narrowing, “Yeah, well, I didn’t have much of a choice.”

The doctor conceded the point with another nod of his head, and changed the topic with surgical precision, “Your burns are healing fine. Still no sign of infection. Your appetite seems to have improved as well, if your dinner tray was any indication.”

Sam nodded mutely. The doctor gestured for him to sit up so he could start on his back, and moved his elbow closer so that Sam could pull himself into a sitting position. Deciding to indulge his curiosity, Sam asked over his shoulder, “So, do I have you or Ratchet to thank for my unexpected nap this morning?”

“It was Ratchet’s decision, but I wrote the prescription.” The doctor replied, confirming Sam’s suspicions.

“I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure they cover informed consent in medical school.” Sam replied, an accusation in his voice.

There was a pause before the doctor replied, “You’ll have to take it up with Ratchet or Optimus Prime. That’s way above my pay-grade.” Sam heard the snap of latex gloves being pulled off, and the doctor was saying, “Okay, you can put your shirt on now.”

Mulling over the strange non-answer, Sam pulled his shirt over his head. After Dr. McNeil gathered his supplies—Sam saw that the bandages looked less graphic than this morning—the doctor motioned for him to follow. He stood up, noticing with a flash of irritation that his knees felt rubbery, and followed the doctor into the hall. To Sam’s surprise, there was a uniformed officer standing at attention by the door, who fell into step behind them as they walked. 

As they approached the receiving area, Sam could hear his mother’s angry voice, echoing toward him. Sam groaned internally, turning to Dr. McNeil.

“Any chance you could put me back in there until she leaves?”

The doctor’s lips jumped in a barely concealed smile. “No chance at all.”

Sam could hear the tail end of the conversation occurring in the receiving area.

“He broke the law, ma’am.” Came the disembodied voice of the Brig Officer. He sounded like a man who was on the last dregs of his patience.

“Are you kidding me? Thrown in jail for the whole day because he punched that smug asshole in the face? He’s working through some big shit right now.”

“Be that as it may, battery is still a crime.”

The solider moved around them and unlocked a blue gate, swinging it wide and allowing them to pass into the receiving area. At the sound of the metallic groan, his mother’s head snapped in their direction. Sam braced himself, preparing to be verbally eviscerated by a middle-aged homemaker in front of three (no, four) highly decorated soldiers.

“Sammy! Look at you!” His mother said instead, her face softening with sympathy. “Are you okay?”

Sam felt his eyebrows rise to his hairline in surprise, but he didn’t have a chance to reply before she was hugging him tightly against her chest.

“Yeah ma, I’m fine.” He replied.

She held him at arm’s length, tugging at his shirt and then running her fingers through his hair. “You look a mess. When was the last time you combed your hair?” Her tone was so stereotypically _motherly_ that Sam felt the corner of his mouth quirk up.

“Sorry ma, I didn’t pack one. Next time.”

The Brig Officer spoke from behind the large desk, “You’re free to go, Mr. Witwicky.” His tone implied that Sam was welcome to do so at the earliest opportunity.

“Let’s go. Your father and Mikaela are waiting in the officer’s lounge.” His mother said, pushing him by the shoulders towards the brig entrance. As he walked away, Sam noticed that Dr. McNeil had stayed behind, engaging in a quiet conversation with the Brig Officer.

As Sam stepped out of the brig, he was surprised to see Williams leaning against the corridor wall. He straightened as they approached.

“How’re you doing, Sam?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” He replied, “Glad to be out of there.”

Without preamble, Williams handed him a brown paper bag. Curiously, Sam opened it and peered inside to see a phone charger and various personal care items. He was deeply surprised to see his own phone sitting at the bottom of the bag. When Sam took it out and turned it on, he saw the power was fully charged.

Sam looked from his phone to Williams, saying with sincere appreciation, “Thank-you. You didn’t have to do this.”

“It was no problem.” Williams replied with a shrug. “Heading to the officer’s lounge?”

When Sam nodded, Williams turned on his heel and motioned for them to follow. It was a long walk to the lounge, and he gained a new appreciation of the sheer size of the battleship. As they walked, soldiers in various states of attire passed them—some in full fatigues, others in dress uniforms, others still in casual clothing. Occasionally Sam would catch them looking at him curiously, as if he were something interesting, something worth close attention.

By the time he had arrived at the lounge, he was completely discomforted.

The lounge was a sizable space for the battleship. The room was dominated with a variety of seating options, including three well-worn couches and numerous comfortable looking chairs. There was a small kitchenette to their immediate right as they entered, with several long tables lined by squat benches. Although there were quite a few soldiers clustered around, Sam was immediately able to spot his father and Mikaela on the far side of the room, sitting in front of a flat screen television that had been bolted to the wall.

Sam felt a sickening twist in his stomach as he recognized his picture on the screen. Mikaela noticed as they approached, and she turned around with a grim expression on her face.

“Sam.” She said, “You need to see this.”

Sam approached the television as though in a trance. It was a live feed from CNN. The pretty young anchor was speaking, and his picture dominated the right-hand corner of the screen. As he approached, her words filtered into his awareness.

_“The whereabouts of Samuel James Witwicky are still unknown. Reliable sources have confirmed that Witwicky is currently enrolled as a freshman at Princeton University. Eyewitness reports also place Witwicky at the scene of the Princeton explosion, which destroyed the Princeton University Library and resulted in the deaths of eleven students and three staff. Princeton University has declined our requests for comment.” _

The screen changed, and now it was showing the familiar clip of the Fallen. The anchor’s voice dubbed over the video.

_“Witwicky has been the target of a nation-wide manhunt ever since this video was televised across every telecommunications channel in the United States. CNN has received confirmation that this message was televised in at least one hundred and twenty-three other countries—it is entirely possible that the message was sent worldwide.”_

With shaking hands, Sam reached up to the side of the television and pressed the channel up button several times until another news broadcast lit up the screen. As before, Sam’s face was in the right hand corner of the screen. This time, the Fallen’s face was dominating the left side of the screen.

_“Expert analysis of the footage that was broadcast two days ago suggests that the video is not doctored or fabricated. Although there remains the possibility that this is an elaborate hoax, sources confirm that NATO forces, including the United States navy and air force, have rapidly assembled in the Middle East. This brute response begs the question—is there a possibility that extraterrestrial life exists? If so, what does this mean for national security within the United States?”_

Sam pressed the channel up button again. BBC news sprang to life to show a reporter standing in front of the entrance to a large military facility.

_“What’s happening now, Robert?” _

_“I am standing at the entrance to Scott Air Force Base in Illinois, where just over twenty-four hours ago over seventy aircraft took flight, including C-17 military transports and F-16 Falcon fighter jets. This type of rapid, wide-scale deployment of military aircraft has not been seen since the terrorist attacks on 9/11 that killed almost 3000 individuals and injured 6000 others.”_

“Oh my God.” His mother whispered behind him.

Sam pressed the up channel again. Fox News lit up the screen, and three panelists were animatedly talking.

_“Well, I will tell you one thing! If the White House has kept information about extraterrestrial life from Congress, then heads will roll in Washington.” _

_“Don’t be absurd. If extraterrestrial life exists, and I’m not saying it does, than the President is well within his rights to classify that information as top secret. The President has done nothing wrong.”_

_“Nothing wrong? Nothing wrong! We have mobilized half of our armed forces with no explanation from the White House. No one has said a word about why the mobilization was necessary or who this Samuel James Witwicky is. No one has told the citizens of the United States a damn thing! I’d say there’s plenty wrong with that.”_

Sam pressed the up button again, realizing distantly that he was shaking.

Another newscast, and this time his picture was the only image on the screen. A French anchor was talking animatedly, but Sam couldn’t understand what he was saying. Numbly, he reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He pressed the Twitter icon and reeled in shock as he saw that he had 9,871 notifications. Pressing the notification icon with his thumb, Sam flipped through the first several dozen notices. Most were re-tweets from news sources that had mentioned him. A few were direct tweets. Glancing at the message tab, he saw that he had 1,187 messages.

Disbelievingly, Sam pressed the home button and then thumbed the Ebay icon. He sank to the couch, his hand coming up to press against his mouth—Ladiesman217 had 15,871 notifications. Sam pressed the home button again and opened his Facebook account. He had 7,877 new friend requests.

Sam lowered his phone, completely numb with shock. After a long while, he managed to grind out, “So I guess the cat’s out of the bag, then.”

No one replied to him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my version of Steelfeather's 'Confrontations' chapter. She has graciously given her permission for me to include the scene with Sam and Optimus on the flight deck, though I think her fans will agree that mine is a poor facsimile.

They sat together for hours, watching the news coverage on CNN. No one spoke a word. Just after ten o’clock, the feed cut-away from a panel discussion on national security and returned to the anchor. She was looking resolutely into the camera as she announced that CNN had received verified footage of the Princeton Library explosion. After a warning that the footage may be upsetting for some viewers, the newsfeed cut to a video.

Sam recognized the image immediately as the gallery of the Lewis Science library. A man was panting loudly in the microphone, but his panicked breathing could not drown out the sound of gunfire and screaming. The person angled his camera just in time to see a long row of bookshelves explode dramatically, collapsing like dominos one after the other. The cameraman was running then, the footage blurring and shaky. The video settled a moment later, this time filming the library from around a large filing cabinet. The camera was focused on the Pretender, now in its mech mode, as it began shooting across the gallery.

“_Oh God, oh God!” _The cameraman was whispering, terrified.

The Pretender charged its arm-mounted plasma canon and blew a hole through the library wall. The camera panned around to film the wreckage, and he saw himself in profile as he grabbed Mikaela’s hand and pulled her through the opening. Although the image was blurry, he was clearly recognizable. The Pretender followed briskly, and disappeared through the same hole only a moment later. 

The video ended, and the anchor was back on the television with a still of the footage in the top right-hand corner of the screen. The picture was Sam’s face in profile, silhouetted in front of the smoking hole. The ticker feed at the bottom of the screen read ‘_Verified footage of the Princeton Attack shows Samuel James Witwicky and an unknown assailant of mechanical origin.’_

Sam was on his feet in an instant. He strode quickly to the television and pressed the power button with a great deal more force than necessary. He stood there for a long moment, his back to Mikaela and his parents, trying to get himself under control. He found that it was difficult to do so. Suddenly, his mom was there, hugging him close and rubbing her hands over his back—soothing him as though he were a small child. Normally, he would have been mortified by the display of physical affection in a room full of soldiers, but it was an indication of his state of mind that he just closed his eyes and let her mother him.

It was after eleven o’clock when his father decided it was time for them to head back to their rooms. A short while later, Sam found himself slumped on his mattress, having said goodnight to Mikaela and his parents. If someone had asked him to recollect the sequence of events between the officer’s lounge and when he’d stepped into his room, he could not have done so.

Sam toed off his shoes and reclined against the mattress, pulling out his phone. Although he was feeling emotionally wrecked, his wasn’t tired in the least. With nothing else to do, he spent the next several hours flagellating himself by looking through breaking news sites and commentary on social media. None of it was heartening.

It was quarter after four when Bumblebee texted him. 

_Bee: You should go to sleep, Sam. Nothing will change between now and the morning._

Sam wondered idly how long his guardian had been monitoring his Internet activity. He knew that his obsessive searching for anything that mentioned his name did not paint him in a flattering light. His phone pinged again.

_Bee: I know that things look bleak right now, but I meant what I said last night. We will protect you._

He stared at the words for a long moment before he realized that he had nothing to say. He typed out a short reply.

_SamWitwicky: I’m not in the mood to talk right now, Bee._

His phone pinged again a second later.

_Bee: Sam, please. _

He swallowed hard, surprised by the lump in his throat. He typed out a quick response.

_SamWitwicky:_ _not now bee. you're right, im going to bed._

Before the Autobot could reply, Sam powered off his phone. He was well aware that Bee could turn it back on if he wanted, but he hoped the scout would take the hint. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the guilty twinge he felt at snubbing his friend. He knew that Bee was only worried about him. He also knew that the scout’s life had been complicated perhaps as badly as his own by Megatron’s actions, but Sam found that he had no desire to talk with him about it. He had no desire to _talk_ at all.

A metallic groan cut through the silence as his door was pulled open. Sam jerked awake at the sound, realizing in surprise that he had nodded off. He pushed up onto his elbows, blinking sleep out of his eyes, when Mikaela stepped into the room.

“Kaela,” He greeted roughly, “What time is it?”

“It’s 7:30. You’re scheduled for a dressing change before breakfast. We have to hurry; we have a debriefing with Rear Admiral Turetsky and General Morshower at nine.”

Mikaela’s words woke him up instantly. He remembered that Galloway had been on his way to meet Turetsky when they’d had their altercation.

“When’d you hear about this?” He asked.

“Yesterday afternoon. Williams told us before he took your mother to the brig.”

Her answer only raised more questions. He’d met Williams outside of the brig, and the soldier hadn’t said anything about a debriefing. Sam pulled himself up into a sitting position, and reached down to put on his shoes. He had been debriefed after the Mission City battle, so he had a vague understanding of what to expect. Lots of pointed questions, lots of repeating himself, and a phonebook-sized stack of non-disclosure agreements and liability waivers to sign. However, Sam was surprised to hear that General Morshower was going to be present. He had never met the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Sam was sure that he had better things to do than attend a debriefing with a bunch of civilians.

Sam grabbed his phone from the bedside table, noticing that it was still powered off.

“Okay, let’s go.” 

An unfamiliar soldier stood in the corridor, and he nodded in greeting as they stepped out of the room. The soldier gestured for them to follow as he turned on his heel and started walking towards the hospital ward. When they arrived, Sam was greeted by an unfamiliar hospital corpsman. The doctor had him hop up on one of the beds and take off his shirt, in what was quickly becoming a familiar routine. The corpsman changed his bandages quickly and efficiently, and then handed Sam a small paper cup after he’d pulled on his shirt. Glancing inside, Sam saw two small pills.

“Is there anything in here that’s going to violate my personal autonomy?” He asked sardonically.

The doctor stared at him in confusion, before realization dawned on his face.

“No, nothing like that. Just acetaminophen and ampicillin.” The doctor replied.

Taking the physician at his word, Sam swallowed the pills and climbed off the bed. When he stepped out of the hospital ward a short while later, he found the soldier exactly where he’d left him.

“Breakfast?” He asked. 

It was no time at all before he found himself standing with a tray of food, looking across the mess hall for a seat. Mikaela pulled him towards the far side of the mess, where he saw his parents and Williams already eating breakfast. When his mother caught sight of him, she smiled at him warmly and pulled out a chair beside her. Sam sat, and began to work methodically through the tray of food: first, a bagel with cream cheese, then a cup of yogurt, followed by a carrot muffin. As with supper the night before, he was surprised when he had finished every bite of his meal. He hadn’t been feeling particularly hungry, but evidentially emotional trauma was no match for the appetite of an eighteen-year-old. 

Williams glanced down at his watch and said, “Alright, we have twenty minutes before the debriefing. Let’s head up to the conference room.”

The group walked their trays over to the receptacle, where they scrapped plates and stacked dishes. When they’d finished, Williams gestured for them to head towards the door. When Sam made to follow him, Williams raised a restraining hand.

“Not you, Sam. Optimus Prime has requested your presence on the flight deck.”

Sam pulled up short in surprise.

“What?” He asked.

“Prime wants to see you. Topside. Now.” He enunciated his words sarcastically, but the corner of his lips were quirked in a smile.

Sam’s head fell back as his eyes closed, feeling a strange combination of dread and resignation come over him. He could guess what the Autobot leader wanted to speak with him about, and Sam would rather present himself to Ratchet for a full physical than suffer Optimus’ disappointment. Unfortunately for him, Optimus’ requests were steel wrapped in velvet—polite but unyielding.

When he opened his eyes again, Mikaela was looking at him with real amusement on her face.

“I’m about to be interrogated by total strangers for _hours_, and I still wouldn’t trade places with you for anything.” She said with a grin. 

Sam groaned and gave her a half-hearted dirty look, which earned him a genuine laugh in response.

Glancing at his watch, Williams motioned Mikaela and his parents towards the door. He called back to Sam good-naturedly, “Good luck.”

Sam raised his hand in farewell, and then looked over his shoulder at the unfamiliar officer who had escorted them to the mess.

“Well, I might as well get it over with. Can you take me up?” He asked.

The solider nodded and led the way, and Sam fell into step behind him. He tried not to dwell on the inevitable haranguing that he was about to receive, but it was difficult to control the urge to shame-spiral. It was almost ten minutes later before Sam stepped through the hatch onto the flight deck, squinting in the bright morning light of near-equatorial Africa. The oppressive heat caused Sam to draw an involuntary breath, and he winced in discomfort. 

Optimus was in his bipedal mode, standing at the edge of the flight deck where they had spoken two days ago. Sam hesitated only for a moment, before he started walking towards the Autobot leader. Optimus turned as he approached, looking down at him with those brilliant blue optics.

“Hi Optimus.” Sam greeted meekly, “Nice weather we’re having, huh? Perfect time of year for post-Apocalypse cruise around the Middle East.”

“Good morning, Sam.” Optimus replied, going down to one knee in front of him. Sam instinctively flinched back as the Autobot drew near, and he instantly felt annoyed with himself. This was _Optimus_, who had given his life to protect him and had risked it again to destroy the Fallen. In defiance of the way his heartbeat had kicked into double-time, Sam stepped towards the Autobot leader and blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“Okay, so listen. I know I shouldn’t have done it. My temper got the best of me. I’m sorry.”

“Although it heartens me considerably to know that you have thought about your actions, I did not ask you here to discuss your altercation with Director Galloway.”

Sam blinked at the Autobot leader in surprise.

“Oh,” He replied, unintelligibly, “Well, what did you want to talk about, then?”

By way of answer, Optimus slowly extended his hand towards him, palm up.

“It is not a matter for public discussion.” The Autobot leader replied. 

It took Sam a moment to realize that Optimus wanted him to step onto his hand. Feeling a sudden spike of trepidation, along with burgeoning curiosity, Sam took hold of one digit and climbed into the large bot’s palm. Optimus stood slowly, curling Sam close to his chest, and began to transform.

Sam had seen the Autobots transform plenty of times, but never this close. Every part of Optimus’ body began to move: large panes of metal twisted and curled in on themselves, shifting and sliding as they rearranged around him. He was pushed back against Optimus’ spark casing as the bot’s chest splintered into tiny fragments of metal that fanned away from him. The glass panes on Optimus’ chest extended forward and melded seamlessly together to become a windshield, as the familiar cab quickly took shape around him. Although he was squeezed and buffeted, moved this way and that, the transformation was gentle and considerate—just like all of the Autobots’ interactions with humans.

It was only the matter of several moments before Sam felt the hard metal against his back soften into supple leather, and he found himself sitting in the driver’s seat of Optimus’ cab. The steering wheel snapped into place in front of him and the gearshift folded up from the floor, as the Autobot finished transforming.

Sam’s heart pounded in his throat, and he felt lightheaded from the adrenaline that was surging through his body.

“Holy shit.” He said weakly, “Give me a heads-up next time, would you?”

“My apologies, Sam.” The Autobot leader replied, “It would be difficult for you to climb into my cab, given the state of your injuries, and this conversation merits privacy.”

Sam waved him off, taking a moment to get his thundering heart under control. When at last he felt reasonably calm, he asked, “What’s with the cloak and dagger stuff, Optimus?”

For a long moment, Optimus did not respond. Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was taking the time to put his thoughts in order.

“You should know that I am thrice indebted to you, Sam.”

Sam blinked in surprise. Whatever he had expected Optimus to say, that certainly hadn’t been it.

“What?” He asked, unintelligibly. 

“I don’t know how much Bumblebee has told you about our culture, but the time before the Great War was one of peace and prosperity. The Golden Age, as it has come to be known, was also a time when religion was widespread amongst our people.”

Sam blinked at the dashboard, caught off-balance by the unexpected direction their conversation had taken.

“Religion? Really? I always thought of you guys as super logical.” Sam winced as he realized the implication of his words, “I mean, I didn’t think any of you were spiritual. At least, no one’s ever mentioned anything about it to me.”

Thankfully, Optimus did not seem to take offense to his words. When the Autobot spoke, his voice was tinged with amusement.

“Like all sentient creatures, Sam, we desire to understand the nature of our existence. We are just as driven by ontological questions of _being_ as are humans, and our creation stories are not so dissimilar. Ours tells of a benevolent, omniscient deity called Primus that created the universe, not unlike the God of Abrahamic religions, Elohim or Yahweh.”

Sam found himself listening in rapt attention, fascinated by the idea that religion was such a universal (and ancient) concept.

“Do you believe?” Sam asked curiously.

“I do.” Optimus confirmed, “Although not many of us left alive still do.”

Sam nodded slowly. It made sense that most Cybertronians would lose their faith after millions of years embroiled in a bloody civil war.

“Honor was an integral part of the old Code of Primus,” Optimus continued, “And the bond created by a life debt was perhaps the most revered and binding of all obligations.”

Sam felt himself blush hotly in embarrassment as he realized the implications of Optimus’ words.

“Come on, big guy,” Sam said in discomfort, “It’s not a big deal. You saved my life, and I saved yours. I’d say that makes us even.”

“No Sam,” Optimus refuted firmly, “Not only did you save my life in Egypt. You also killed Megatron in Mission City, and in doing so saved my life again.”

Sam frowned at the memory.

“Well he didn’t stay dead, did he? And if we want to get down to brass tacks, my actions in Mission City also destroyed the Allspark.”

A familiar sense of consternation knit Sam’s brow. He knew that the Allspark was one of the Autobots’ most sacred artefacts, the only thing capable of creating new Transformer life, and he had single-handedly destroyed it. He wondered, not for the first time, why Optimus didn’t resent him for it.

“Did you know that I was once in charge of overseeing the Allspark? In the time before the Great War?”

Confused by the apparent non-sequitur, Sam cocked his head and stared at the dashboard.

“I think Bee mentioned something about that.” He replied.

“The Allspark was lost for eons before it was discovered by Sentinel Prime, the leader of Cybertron. After its excavation, it was housed within the Simfur Temple. I had the dual responsibility of studying the Allspark and protecting it.”

Sam’s consternation deepened. It hurt to know that he had destroyed something that was so personally significant to the Autobot leader.

Something about his expression must have been telling, for Optimus assured him, “You did what was necessary for the survival of both our peoples, Sam. If Megatron had captured the Allspark, he would have killed my soldiers and then reaved this planet for its resources, before returning to Cybertron to rule as a dictator. It was why I made the decision to eject the Allspark into space in the first place.”

Optimus’ words brought him up short.

“You did what?” Sam asked, surprised.

“The Golden Age ended when Megatron started a Decepticon uprising in a bid for power. He was not satisfied as Lord High Protector and overseer of Cybertron’s armies. He wanted to have complete military, political, and spiritual authority. After centuries of skirmishes and battles, he began to gain the advantage. Emboldened by his success, he made a move to capture the Allspark. As its protector, I was faced with an impossible decision: keep the Allspark within the Temple Simfur and risk losing it to Megatron, or send the Allspark into space to prevent a Decepticon victory? It was a difficult situation, but I ultimately decided to initiate the Allspark failsafe, knowing full well that it would likely result in its destruction or permanent loss.”

Sam sat back in shock at the Autobot leader’s words. He knew that the Allspark had been lost to space, but he had no idea that it was a purposeful decision by _Optimus_ that had set in motion a chain of events that would forever change the course of human history. Sam was surprised to feel a twinge of resentment towards the mech.

“I am indebted to you, Sam, because you killed Megatron in Mission City, and in doing so saved my life. You also saved my life in Egypt, which allowed me to defeat the Fallen and protect this planet that we have come to call home.”

Sam’s mind was whirling too quickly to marshal his thoughts, so he asked numbly, “You said you were thrice indebted to me. I saved your life twice—what’s the third reason?”

“I do not think you realize,” Optimus said slowly, wonderingly, “How very much you mean to Bumblebee.”

Sam frowned in confusion, “Bee? What does he have to do with this?”

“As you know, we do not reproduce as organic life reproduces. Our kind have what are, or rather _were_, called Creators. These mechs helped to design and create a chassis—a sparkling—which was activated using energy from the Allspark. Creators were responsible for determining every characteristic and feature of a sparkling, from their design, to their programming, and ultimately—their purpose. I was one of Bumblebee’s Creators. In human terms you could think of me as his father, although that is an imperfect analogy.”

Sam blinked at the dash in front of him, openly shocked. He was well aware of Bee’s respect and admiration for Optimus, but Sam had no idea that the Autobot leader was Bee’s father figure. It gave him a funny turn in his chest to think that Bee’s _father_ sent him into battle, repeatedly, without an iota of hesitation. As if reading his thoughts, Optimus continued, his voice solemn and serious. 

“Bumblebee was sparked just before the Great War. To my mingled relief and chagrin, he turned out to be an excellent scout, perhaps the best we had sparked since before the Golden Age. Although I was reluctant to send him into the field, we were desperate. The Decepticons were slowly but steadily gaining the advantage, and we needed every resource at our disposal to beat them back. Bumblebee was eager to prove himself, as most younglings are want to do, and he accepted every mission with enthusiasm. I never sent him on the most dangerous assignments and I never sent him out alone—thinking that I would be able to protect him. I was wrong.”

Optimus’ voice had grown heavy with remorse.

“What happened?” Sam asked quietly.

“When we were preparing to eject the Allspark into space, a Decepticon force intercepted us at Tyger Pax. Megatron had moved more quickly than I had anticipated. We needed time to get into the Well and initiate the failsafe sequence before their forces could destroy the mechanism. We needed a diversion.”

“Bee.” Sam whispered.

“Yes. I ordered Jetfire to fly to the far side of the Well to draw Megatron’s attention away from our true purpose. I knew, however, that we would need a staggered defense. Bumblebee volunteered to harass the Decepticon forces long enough for Arcee and me to get to the Allspark. I ordered him and Cliffjumper to harry the enemy as much as possible without engaging them directly. Unfortunately, the Decepticon strike force had advanced almost to the Well, and Bumblebee was caught in the thick of battle. He and Cliffjumper engaged Megatron and Barricade at the rear of the Decepticon advance, before Starscream unleased a missile salvo that hit him directly. He was badly injured.”

“Is that how he lost his voice?”

“No.” Optimus replied, “Bumblebee and Cliffjumper succeeded in their mission. Arcee and I were able to initiate the failsafe sequence, and Megatron watched as the Allspark was launched into space—out of his grasp. His wrath was terrible.”

“What did he do?” Sam asked, horrified.

“Bumblebee has never said, and I have never pressed him, but it was the better part of a cycle before I made it out of the Well. Megatron has the proclivity for great cruelty, and in his fury he directed that cruelty towards Bumblebee. He did not kill him, although he could have. The damage Megatron inflicted was a message, for me.”

Sam shivered, sickened and afraid in equal measures. He was well aware of Megatron’s penchant for vengeance. His heart hurt for his friend and guardian.

“After Tyger Pax, Bumblebee was a different mech than the one I had sparked. He had lost his youthful exuberance, his easygoing nature. Although he never once failed to complete a mission, he was colder, more distant. In some indefinable way, the part of him that was Bumblebee had died at Tyger Pax.”

Sam shook his head. The bot that Optimus was describing was nothing like his guardian. His protective, funny, goofy guardian. The bot who spent hours blasting music as they explored every back road around Tranquility. The bot who texted him gifs that made him laugh until he had tears in his eyes. The bot who blew raspberries, and pulled practical jokes, and called him all hours of the day and night, just to say hello.

“That’s not Bee. He’s nothing like that.” Sam protested weakly.

“He is nothing like that _anymore_,” Optimus corrected, “Because of you, Sam. You brought him back to us.”

Suddenly overcome with emotion, Sam leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and the heels of his palms pushing into his eyes. He wasn’t anything special. The only exceptional thing about him was his relationship with the Autobots. Take that away, and he’d be sitting in some lecture hall at a mid-level state school—invisible and alone. He wasn’t worth the devotion of a millions-of-years-old, impossibly intelligent, virtually immortal alien robot.

“I didn’t do anything.” He whispered after a long moment.

“You didn’t have to.” Optimus said, softly. "In saving Bumblebee, who is dearer to me than my own spark, you saved me for a third time.”

Sam sat back heavily, suddenly exhausted. 

“Why are you telling me this?” He asked.

Sam felt an imperceptible shift in Optimus’ mood, as though the bot was bracing himself with steely determination.

“As I have explained, I am thrice indebted to you, Sam.” Optimus said, with a peculiar note of resolve in his voice, “It is incumbent upon my honor to do whatever is necessary—no matter how radical—to ensure your safety.”

He had heard that tone of voice from Optimus on plenty of occasions. It was the tone he used when he was acting in his official capacity as leader of the Autobots, or when he issued commands on the battlefield. It was firm and resolved—and it brooked no argument.

Sam felt a sudden sense of overwhelming dread.

“What are you saying, Optimus?” He demanded.

“I know that you are aware of the news coverage that has occurred as a result of Megatron’s televised demands.” Optimus replied, “Both in terms of its extent and content.”

“Yes, I know, but—“

“Then you are surely aware of the gravity of the situation.” Optimus cut him off, “Megatron’s telecast was sent to every electronic device that was capable of receiving satellite signal on the planet.”

“I didn’t know that, exactly, but—“

“You’re not safe, Sam. Not anymore.” The Autobot leader continued, “To ensure your protection, you will be returning with us to NEST headquarters after we dock at Camp Lemonnier.”

“…what?” He asked, uncomprehendingly. 

“This evening you will be taken by plane to Diego Garcia. Preparations have already been made for you.”

Sam grimaced. Although the prospect of hanging around a bunch of soldiers for god-only-knows how long sounded about as thrilling as a root canal, he could understand Optimus’ logic. He had no desire to be the focus of a cut-throat media circus for the foreseeable future.

“Okay. I don’t like it, but I understand.” He said slowly. A sudden thought occurred to him, and the corner of his lips quirked, “Mom’s going to be pissed she’ll miss bridge at the Paterson’s.” He said, wryly.

There was a long silence, and the feeling of dread twisted in his gut again.

“Optimus?” He prompted after a minute, unable to control the alarm that had seeped into his voice.

“Preparations have been made for _you_, Sam. You alone.” Optimus responded with finality.

“What?” He asked sharply, “What do you mean ‘you alone’? What about my parents? What about _Mikaela_?”

“There are complicated politics involved, Sam. NEST is no longer an American military installation. It has been gifted to the Autobots as part of an ongoing negotiation between our peoples—and in thanks, for saving the planet.”

“Fine, great, what does that have to do with anything?” He demanded, anger making his words harsh.

“The American government will not permit its civilians to travel to what is, essentially, a foreign military nation-state.”

Sam glared at the dash.

“What are you talking about? _I’m_ an American civilian.” He replied angrily.

There was another protracted silence, and Sam had a sudden flash of understanding. With sour bile rising in his throat, he asked tightly, “What did you do?”

“It was contingent upon our signing a treaty with the American government that they relinquish their claim on you.”

Sam stared at the dashboard in disbelief. He should have demanded that the Autobot leader explain himself—that he justify his actions to Sam’s full satisfaction. It would have been the mature thing to do. Instead, all that came out of his mouth was, “What in the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

“Sam—“ Optimus started, but Sam cut him off.

“What in the hell were you thinking? How could you think I would ever consent to this?” 

“Sam, your consent in this matter is not required.” Optimus said gently, “The American government signed the treaty with all of its stipulations shortly after we came aboard.”

Hot anger pounded through him, “After everything I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me? You take away my citizenship and separate me from the people I love to squirrel me away in a _military bunker_?”

Sam was distantly aware that he was yelling, his voice strangled in anger. If someone had told him an hour ago that he’d be screaming in rage at the Autobot leader, he would never have believed it.

“And I’m guessing this isn’t a temporary arrangement, either,” Sam continued, realizing as he spoke that he was certainly correct. The United States government was not lackadaisical about citizenship. “Have you seriously fucked over _the rest of my life_?” 

Sam sensed a wince from the cab, in the same imperceptible way that he’d felt the steely resolve earlier. He would have been baffled, in any other situation, but now he barely registered the sensation through the fire of his anger.

“I understand that you are upset. I am sorry for the necessity of my actions.” Optimus replied sincerely.

He did not trust himself to reply in that moment, so he said nothing. He took a steadying breath, and then another, before he felt able to respond.

“I don’t care about whatever life-debt-honor bullshit you think you’re obligated by, Optimus. You are not doing this to me.”

“Sam,” The Autobot leader replied gently, “You know of Megatron’s capacity for cruelty. Just as he tortured Bumblebee to send me a message, so too would he kill you. He will never stop pursuing you.”

Sam ground his teeth together viciously.

“How are you going to protect my parents?” He challenged, switching tactics, “How are you going to protect Mikaela?”

“Mikaela and your parents were only every targeted due to their relationship with you. With you under our protection, it is unlikely Megatron will move against them. Nevertheless, the United States government, in conjunction with Interpol, has a plan to ensure their safety.”

It was a long moment before Sam found himself capable of replying around the lump in his throat. The thought of Mikaela and his parents being hidden away in some witness protection program, never to be seen again, hurt badly.

“Optimus.” Sam said, voice low and pleading, “Please, don’t do this. Whatever steps are being taken to protect them can protect me.”

“Even if I were able to destroy Megatron and root out every last Decepticon on Earth, we could never protect you from your fellow humans. The mentally ill, the fanatics, the extremists, the afraid—they will all target you, Sam. They will all blame you for Megatron’s actions.”

Sam felt his heart lurch painfully, and he raised his hand to press it against his chest. He was silent for a long while, his anger and grief burning hotly in the quiet of the cab.

“Do I have any choice?” He asked eventually, voice low and rough.

“No.” Optimus replied simply. Regretfully.

“Whatever happened to ‘freedom is the right of all sentient beings’?” He asked, coldly, “I would never have taken you for a hypocrite, Optimus.”

Sam’s words were intended to injure, and he felt a twist of grim satisfaction when the truck flinched minutely.

“Sam, whatever you may think about me at the moment, my actions were not intended to force you to comply with my wishes. You cannot simultaneously be a citizen of the United States and a ward of Cybertron—not by your laws or our own.”

“A ward of Cybertron?” He asked.

“A diplomatic position. Removing you to Diego Garcia will protect you from the Decepticons. Your position as Cybertronian Ambassador to Earth will provide you some degree of political protection from your own people. It will ensure that no government can make a move against you without serious repercussions.”

Sam’s mouth downturned hard, “I don’t want to be an Ambassador, Optimus. I’m eighteen years old! I want to go to college and make bad life choices. I want to take Mikaela to nice restaurants and visit my folks on the weekends and buy a house with a nice lawn. Don’t you get it? _I don’t want this._”

“I know, Sam. I am sorry.”

Realizing the futility of arguing with the Autobot leader any further, Sam asked tightly, “Are we done here? Or are there any more life-destroying revelations you have left to lay on me?”

There was a long pause before Optimus responded, “There is nothing else, Sam.”

“Good. Then let me out.”

“Sam—“

“I have nothing more to say to you. Let me out.”

“…as you wish.” Optimus replied. Sam could hear the restrained emotion in the bot’s words, but he felt no sympathy for the Autobot leader.

Optimus began to transform around him, and Sam was treated to a reverse experience from the transformation he’d witnessed earlier. This time, however, his heart was hammering with mingled fury and grief, rather than fear. It was only the space of several moments until Optimus was lowering him onto the flight deck. Sam didn’t even look at the Autobot leader as he strode stiffly to the flight deck door. When the unknown soldier from earlier saw him approach, he pulled open the door with a practiced turn of his hands. As Sam drew near, he spotted Bumblebee in his alt mode in the shadow of the observation deck, rocking back and forth on his wheels. The scout was anxious, Sam realized belatedly.

When he approached, his guardian moved forward slowly until his bumper pressed against his shins. Sam didn’t take his eyes off the hatch as he asked, tightly, “Did you know?”

He hoped for a denial with an intensity that burned. _Please, not you too._

“Yes.” Bee replied, and Sam’s eyes closed in pain. There was the sound of rapid-fire transformation and suddenly his guardian was kneeling beside him, a keening noise of entreaty whining from his vocoder.

“For how long?” Sam managed, still not looking at the scout.

“Optimus informed Ratchet and me once the treaty was signed. We were sworn to secrecy.”

The fact that Bee was following orders in no way assuaged the feeling of betrayal that stabbed through him, sharp and hot. Sam nodded once, incapable of speaking, and walked through the open entryway without a backwards glance.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam walked slowly, trailing behind the solider in front of him. Bumblebee’s confession had had a curious effect on his mental faculties. When he had been talking with Optimus, Sam had been so angry that it had felt like his rage would burn him from the inside out. After speaking with Bumblebee, however, he felt only numbness—as though he had been disconnected from his limbic system entirely. After the sharpness of his anger and grief, the apathy was an almost welcome sensation.

Unfortunately, it in no way impeded his ability to think. To _rememeber._

Sam understood the implications of Optimus’ words, at least in an abstract sense. He was going to be transferred to a military facility in the middle of the Indian Ocean, where he would stay for the foreseeable future. It was likely that he wouldn’t see Mikaela, his parents, or his friends for a long time—perhaps not for the rest of his life, if he were particularly unfortunate.

A grimace twisted his mouth. Considering how the last two years had gone, he wasn’t positive how long ‘the rest of his life’ would be, exactly. He did not share Optimus’ confidence that hiding on Diego Garcia would in any way dissuade Megatron if the Decepticon leader decided to make good on his threat.

His confinement—and it _was_ confinement, there was nothing consensual about this arrangement—also meant a whole lot of _no mores_. No more date nights with Mikaela out to the movies, where they’d hold hands in the dark and eat junk until the credits rolled. No more college, no more dorm room. No more sleeping in on the weekends, only to be woken up by his father yelling loudly up the stairs for him to _get his ass up_. No more Mojo and Frankie. No more California Christmases. No more American passport. No more birthday breakfasts with his parents, which he always complained about even though he secretly loved the dorky tradition.

The train of thought was threatening to shatter the apathy that had wrapped around him like a fog, and Sam swallowed hard.

How was he going to tell them good-bye? How could he possibly do that to his parents? To Mikaela? Just three days ago, they thought they had lost him forever. It turns out that they had—they just didn’t know it yet.

The realization brought with it a surge of anger that took his breath away. Sam wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t understand Optimus’ concern. He even understood that the Autobot leader was right about Megatron and the mech’s burning desire for revenge. Sam had known from the moment he’d stood up in that warehouse and saw Megatron’s red optics narrowed down at him that the Decepticon leader was looking to settle a score. But by his actions, Optimus had accomplished that which Megatron had never managed, though not for lack of trying. Optimus had effectively ended his life—or at least his life as Sam knew it.

After Mission City, Sam had been eager to return to normalcy as quickly as possible _thank-you-very-much_. He had the car, he had the girl, he had some kickass battle scars, and he had a brand new sense of self-confidence that came from saving the world. Although the American government had nervously nibbled their fingernails, and _hemmed_ and _hawed_ as they debated (at length) about whether to allow his family to stay in Tranquility, they had ultimately decided that the risk of future attacks was minimal. So Sam had returned to school, and eventually things had gone back to normal—well, normal plus a cadre of sentient aliens whom he came to tentatively call friends.

Sam felt a twist of grief in his gut.

_Friends_.

That wasn’t the right word to describe his relationship with Bumblebee—not by far. When Bee had first returned with him to Tranquility, there had been an awkward period as they got to know one another. Sam remembered his nervousness every time he had stepped into the garage. He was never sure how the yellow scout would respond to his presence. Would he be happy to see him? Or would he be annoyed to be interrupted from whatever it was that a millions-of-years-old highly experienced alien infiltrator did all day?

But Bumblebee had always welcomed his presence.

For the first few weeks after Mission City, Bumblebee had been quiet during their time together. Sam hadn’t minded—he had known the scout was recovering from his injuries—and besides, Sam had talked enough for the both of them. He would sit on the cement floor in front of Bumblebee’s alt form, and ramble on and on for hours. He talked about his classes and his homework, and he complained about high school drama. He would talk about the plots of his favorite movies and television shows, list the pros and cons of his favorite superheroes, and argue adamantly for one fandom over another. Sometimes his talking would take an introspective turn, and he’d think aloud about his future. On those days he would speculate about his fledgling relationship with Mikaela, about what it would be like to go to college, and about what it would be like to be out on his own.

Bumblebee listened to it all with endless patience. Whenever Sam asked the scout a question about himself in those early days, the mech would warble thoughtfully in his dial-tone language before answering. At first, the answers were hesitant, guarded even, but eventually the scout’s reticence was replaced with a sort of affectionate exasperation. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks became one month since Bumblebee had come home with him, the awkwardness between them had eased into the first stirrings of genuine friendship.

After that, Bumblebee started spending more time with Sam in his bipedal mode. The two of them would sit together in the garage, or on the bluff overlooking Tranquility, or at the reservoir, and they would talk. At first, Bumblebee was hesitant, almost shy, but conversation came easier to his guardian with practice. It had seemed like no time at all before the scout was calling him with news about the Autobots or texting him silly things to make him laugh.

Sam remembered the first text message that Bee had ever sent him. He had just said goodnight, giving the bot an affectionate pat on the hood before he walked into the house. His father had intercepted him in the kitchen, grousing at him for forgetting to take out the trash (again), when Sam felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. After he had promised his father that he’d take out the trash and sweep the driveway in penance, Sam had pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. The message was a single image of the South Park skiing meme with the words, “Forgot to take out the trash? You’re gonna have a bad time” across the top and bottom of the picture. Sam had stared at it in disbelief for the space of a heartbeat before he started laughing, hard. The overused, not even funny meme juxtaposed with the fact that it had been sent by a super intelligent alien robot was so absurd that he laughed until his mother had stuck her head into the kitchen and asked him what was going on. Sam had waved her off and looked out the window towards the garage. When his eyes settled on the form of the yellow Camaro, draped in the shadows, the bot had flashed his high beams at him playfully. The grin that had stretched his face had almost hurt in its earnestness.

From that time on, the two of them had been inseparable. Over the last two years, Bumblebee had been a universal constant in his life. _Friendship_ was an entirely inadequate term to describe what was between the two of them. Bee was his best friend, his guardian, his confidant, and his partner-in-crime. He proved to be dependable and loyal, protective and fierce. In all that time, Bee had never once deceived him.

At least, not until today.

That realization made tears prick the corners of his eyes. With conscious effort, he pushed the pain away, to think about later. After.

The unknown solider stopped in front of a nondescript door, which he pushed open and gestured for Sam to step inside. The room within was a conference room of average size, with an oval table bolted to the floor in the center of the space. A dozen office chairs encircled the table, and a white board was affixed to the back wall.

Sam looked at the soldier in confusion, but the man just gestured for him to take a seat. Obediently, Sam pulled out the nearest chair and sat down, his thoughts turning back to the matter at hand.

How was he going to explain to his parents that they weren’t going back to their little house in the suburbs? Or that he wasn’t going back with them at all? And how was he going to explain all of this to Mikaela, who had been so upset at the prospect of him moving across the country to attend university that she’d almost broken up with him? How would she handle an indefinite long-distance relationship?

Sam felt grief twist in his gut again.

Did he even want that for her? She deserved better than that.

After an interminable time, Sam was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of the conference room door being opened. He looked up and saw a grim-faced Williams gesturing for his parents to enter the room. He could tell immediately by the stricken look on his mother’s face that his parents had been informed about their situation. Absurdly, Sam felt a moment’s gratitude that he didn’t have to be the one to break the news to them. The feeling passed as quickly as it came.

He got to his feet as his parents stepped into the room. His mother’s face was drawn tight, her eyes red rimmed and watery. His father’s neck was streaked and his face was deeply flushed. Sam stepped forward and took his mother’s arms by the elbows.

“It’ll be okay, ma.” He murmured, “You’ll be okay.”

“Sammy.” She whispered, raising her hands to cup his face, “My baby boy.”

Sam’s eyes fell closed at her words, which were simultaneously heartbroken and tender.

_Don’t cry._ He thought to himself fiercely. _Don’t you dare._

His father was there then, wrapping Sam in a hug that squeezed the air out of him. Sam’s ribs stabbed painfully, but he didn’t protest. He didn’t pull away. He raised one arm to wrap around his father’s shoulders, his other arm squeezing his mother close.

“I should have bought you the Porsche.” His father said, obviously trying for levity despite the emotion in his voice.

Sam’s lips quirked into a weak smile.

“I’m pretty sure all that would have changed is that I’d have a yellow Porsche sitting in my garage instead of a Camaro. Besides, the insurance would be killer.” He replied wryly.

His father’s arm tightened around his shoulder.

“You deserve better, Sam.” His father said.

Desperate to stave off the emotion choking his father’s words, Sam replied soothingly, “It’s okay. It’s okay, dad. I’ll be okay.”

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry._

Just then, Williams cleared his throat politely from the doorway. The look his father directed towards the solider was considerably colder than their previous interactions. After a moment’s hesitation, Williams spoke.

“Would you folks be more comfortable in the officer’s lounge?” He asked gently.

Sam glanced around the room, which was nondescript and impersonal. He couldn’t imagine the next few hours would be any more or less painful given a change of scenery.

“The officer’s lounge would be nice, thank-you Robin.” His mother replied instead, and that was that.

Williams nodded and stepped out of the doorway to let them to leave the conference room. As Sam stepped into the corridor, he asked the soldier, “Where’s Mikaela?”

Williams hesitated a moment before he replied, “Last I heard, she was still in her debriefing.”

Sam nodded slowly. It made sense that her debriefing would take longer than his parents’. She had been with him for the entire debacle.

Williams gestured for them to follow him, and he started walking towards the hatch at the end of the corridor. His mother gave his hand a tight squeeze, and then they started after the soldier. It was no time at all—just two hallways and another hatch door—before they arrived at the officer’s lounge.

When Sam stepped into the room, he made his way towards the couch at the opposite end of the space, where they had sat together last night. His parents followed behind him. Williams, he noticed, stopped next to a decorated solider sitting at the trestle table, and spoke to him in a low voice. The soldier nodded once and started making his way around the room, tapping people on the shoulder and gesturing towards the open door with a nod of his head. It was no time at all before the space had cleared out. 

The silence between him and his parents stretched on, tense and charged with emotion, until his father muttered, “To hell with this.” He stood and turned on the television, flicking through channels until he stopped on a show about a psychic detective. Satisfied, his father sat down in a nearby armchair. The clichéd storyline and the exaggerated acting made for surprisingly soothing background noise. Sam watched the show in silence for an interminable time—long enough for the main character to make a dramatic pronouncement in front of an assemblage of irritated looking detectives—when his mother scoffed loudly beside him.

“Honestly, what a stupid story. How could he figure out that the babysitter did it because she broke her necklace?”

Sam knew instantly what his mother was doing; it was a shared joke between them. His father was notorious for watching shows that would appeal to a teenaged girl. If it was on CW than chances were that his father was a fan. Sam and his mother would tolerate the terrible choice in entertainment for only so long, and then they would start in on the commentary.

_Doesn’t he realize that any evidence he finds in her apartment will be inadmissible in court without a warrant?_

_Do the writers realize that silencers don’t work like that?_

_Oh, she has short hair and piercings. I wonder if she’s an angry army brat who lost her parents or a techy nerd with a mysterious past._

His father would ignore them until their snark ruined his suspension of disbelief, and then he’d start complaining, grumpily. It entertained Sam and his mother to no end.

"Anyone unconscious for that long would have permanent brain damage." Sam replied in agreement.

"Maybe that explains what happened to the writers of this show." His mother replied, and Sam laughed in response. From across the room, his father huffed.

“Why haven't they charged him for tampering with a crime scene? The detectives were right there.”

“Because he’s dreamy, ma.” Sam replied sarcastically.

This back-and-forth between them continued for the remainder of the episode. The sarcasm and the teasing was simultaneously comforting and painful, but in that moment, it was what he needed. What _they_ needed.

When the credits started to roll to the tune of the catchy theme song, his father stood up with a huff.

“I’m going to the bathroom. You guys find something to watch if you’re so good at it.” He grumbled, but there wasn’t any heat to his words. The older man walked towards Williams, who was sitting unobtrusively by the door, and muttered to him quietly. The solider nodded once, and then called over his shoulder in their direction.

“I’ll be back. Sit tight.”

After Williams and his father left the room, Sam stood up and changed the channel on the television. He passed by the news stations quickly, but there was still occasional flashes of his face or Megatron or the Fallen. In short order Sam found a show that he knew his mother would like, and then he sat back down.

* * *

Ron squinted in the brightness of the midday sun as he stepped out onto the flight deck. The heat and humidity were oppressive, and it was only the matter of moments before perspiration started beading across his forehead and the back of his neck. He glanced at Williams who nodded to him encouragingly, and then he started walking towards the opposite end of the flight deck. Ron could see the bright shapes of the Autobots in their car forms (alt modes, he believe they were called) in the distance, under an awning of camo canvas. Not for the first time, Ron felt a profound sense of unease at the anachronistic sight of the flashy automobiles parked quietly on the deck of a battleship.

Unlike Sam and his wife, Ron had never felt at ease with the yellow Camaro that had taken up residence in their garage. He avoided the Autobot unless it was necessary for them to interact. It wasn’t that his son’s guardian—Ron’s lips thinned in a grimace at the thought—had done anything to offend him, but Bumblebee was just too _otherly._ Ron had watched the interactions between the alien and his son with a sense of dread that took him months to understand. It was only after Ron had happened to see them together in the garage one evening that he could articulate what exactly bothered him about the scout. 

Sam had been talking animatedly to the alien, who had been in his bipedal form at the time, when his son said something that caused the Autobot to clap his hands expressively. Sam’s resulting laugh had carried across the lawn, and Ron had seen those blue optics brighten in response. It was then that Ron realized that the scout’s actions had been deliberate, carefully chosen to elicit the burst of laughter from his son. This made Ron think about all of the other times he had seen Bumblebee emote—cry fluid to imitate tears, flutter his wing flaps excitedly, huff air through his vents to imitate a sigh—and Ron realized exactly what was happening. Bumblebee’s actions, his words, even the snippets of pop songs that he played through the radio were all premeditated—each purposefully chosen, in order to endear himself to his son.

Ron frowned at the memory. The Autobots were adept mimics, and their ability to blend into their surroundings had served them well for millions of years. It was also this ability that allowed a battle-hardened alien soldier, who had been embroiled in a civil war for longer than human civilization had existed, to choose the words, actions, and gestures that would put a sixteen-year-old boy perfectly at ease.

It wasn’t that Bumblebee’s actions or intentions were malicious, Ron was forced to admit. On the contrary, the scout was obviously deeply concerned about his son’s well-being—his actions in Egypt only confirmed this knowledge. It also wasn’t that Bumblebee was manipulating his son or forcing him to do things he didn’t want to do. Ron knew the two of them well enough to know that it was Sam who called the shots in their relationship. But there was something in those shining blue optics whenever Bumblebee looked at his son that shook Ron to his core.

In that gaze, Ron was able to see an aching loneliness. It was a look of quiet desperation, of someone who had been alone for far too long and in his son had finally found companionship. It was a determined look, possessive and reverent in equal measures, and it scared the shit out of Ron to see that look directed at his son.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when he saw Optimus Prime separate himself from his companions, driving towards him from across the flight deck until the large truck came to stop several feet away. Ron stared at the Autobot leader as the large mech transformed and lowered to one knee in front of him.

“Mr. Witwicky,” He intoned solemnly, “I had hoped to speak with you.”

“I bet.” Ron replied, voice tight. When he had sat in the officer’s lounge watching _Psych_, he had only been half-listening to the television show and Sam and Judy’s conversation. His thoughts had been turned inward, recollecting the debriefing and thinking about the implications of their current predicament. It had not taken long for him to decide that he wanted to speak with the Autobot leader, alone. Now that he was here, however, he found he did not know what to say.

It seemed that Optimus did not have that problem.

“Mr. Witwicky, please know that I deeply regret the circumstances that have necessitated such extreme measures. It had never been my intention or my desire to separate Sam from you and your wife, but our current situation requires I take actions to ensure Sam’s safety, as well as your own.”

Ron grimaced hard at the large mech.

“Listen, I didn’t come out here to try and change your mind—not that I could, seeing as you already had his citizenship revoked.” Ron said, irritation and frustration sharpening his words. Optimus merely inclined his head, silently encouraging him to continue.

“As much as I hate this situation—and I do hate it, with every fiber of my being—I know that Judy and I can’t do anything to protect Sam from those monsters. Even if we changed our names and hid in the middle of nowhere, they’d find us eventually. They’d find _him_, and there wouldn’t be a god damned thing we could do about it.”

Ron’s jaw tightened and he was careful to keep the tremor out of his voice, “At least with you, he has a chance of making it to his next birthday.”

Optimus leaned forward, his entire posture rigid with a quiet intentness, “You have my word that I will do whatever is in my power to ensure that your son lives a long and happy life.”

Ron nodded. The Autobot leader’s reputation for being both honorable and steadfast had preceded him, and he did not doubt the mech’s sincerity.

“I hope you mean that, Prime. Sam is only eighteen years old; he has his entire life ahead of him. It’s not enough to hide him away on some island—that’s not _living_, that’s just surviving. What are your plans for his education? For his emotional and intellectual fulfillment? How will you make sure he’s happy, Prime?”

The Autobot leader regarded him closely, seemingly considering his questions before answering.

“I have made arrangements for Sam to continue his education through a combination of on-line learning and applied training; what he chooses to study is up to his discretion. Even within NEST there are numerous potential career paths that he could pursue, based on his education and interests. He has expressed… resistance to the idea of becoming the Cybertronian Ambassador to Earth—“

Ron smirked at the Autobot leader’s hesitation. Ron was well aware of his son’s rare but explosive temper, and he was positive that Sam had not made things easy for Optimus. Privately, he hoped that his son had given the mech hell.

“—but there are other options available to him.” Optimus finished.

Something occurred to Ron, and his eyes narrowed at the Autobot leader.

“Do you mean signing up to be a soldier?”

Optimus hesitated before he replied.

“I would not deny Sam’s request to join NEST, were he to ask me.” The Autobot replied carefully, “There are non-combatant positions that Sam could excel in—communications and logistics come to mind—but I do not believe that Sam has any interest in becoming a soldier.”

Ron wasn’t satisfied with the reply, and so he asked pointedly, “Yes or no, Prime, are you going to let my son start fighting in your war?”

Because to hell with that. Ron wasn’t sending his only son away, possibly forever, if the Autobot leader was going to involve him in live combat anyway.

“No, Mr. Witwicky. I would not allow Sam to participate in armed conflict. Not with the Decepticons and not with human combatants.”

Mollified by the Autobot leader’s assurances, Ron nodded slowly.

“And all the rest? What are you going to do to make sure that Sam is happy? That he is fulfilled?”

Something softened in Optimus’ optics as he replied, “Sam will be free to pursue his interests and hobbies as he so desires. Given his affable and friendly nature, I am sure that companionship will be easy for him to come by. William Lennox will also be stationed at the base and Robert Epps is on a rotating assignment, so he will not be without familiar faces. And of course, he will have Bumblebee.”

Mention of the yellow scout made Ron’s thoughts trail back to that night in the garage. He had stood there and watched Sam and Bumblebee for what had felt like hours, before he could identify the feeling that had lodged itself in his chest. It was jealously. He was jealous that the scout had replaced part of Ron’s role in his son’s life. No longer did Sam pester his father to take him on drives, or to go to the movies, or take him to school. That had become Bumblebee’s job. His son also spent every spare minute with the yellow scout, which meant that family movie nights and game nights had become a thing of the past. Although Ron knew that this was an inevitable and natural part of Sam’s maturity into adulthood, he resented the Autobot for hastening the process.

Now, however, Ron found that he was grateful that the scout would be there for his son—that Sam would have a familiar constant in his life over the next few months, which would doubtlessly prove to be tumultuous and painful for his son.

Ron sighed heavily.

“Did you know that Sam was a premie?” He asked, apropos of nothing.

Optimus cocked his head to the side and regarded him with open curiosity.

“A premie?” The Autobot leader repeated, obviously trying to puzzle out the vernacular.

A wan smile pulled at one corner of Ron’s lips. It seemed that the god-like alien robot wasn’t omniscient after all.

“Premie is short for premature—it refers to babies who are born before the 38 week mark. Sam was born about four weeks prematurely. Judy developed pre-eclampsia, and they had to induce labor early because her blood pressure kept rising no matter what they did for her. You should have seen him. He was so tiny—just this precious little thing.” Ron’s voice cracked dangerously, and he had to take a moment to compose himself.

“When we got married, we had decided we wanted to have a few kids,” He continued eventually, “I had a big family when I was growing up, and I wanted Sam to have brothers or sisters. But the experience in the hospital changed all that. It was too hard to see him hooked up to all of those wires and machines, and even after we brought him home we couldn’t relax. For months after he was born, I’d hold a mirror in front of his face every time he fell asleep, just to make sure he was still breathing. Judy and I agreed that couldn’t go through all of that again.”

Ron sucked in a harsh breath.

“But you know what? It didn’t matter that Sam was an only child. He was perfect. He was _enough._” Ron knew that he had lost his tenuous grasp on his emotions, and his voice wavered hard as he continued, “I am giving up my son, my only son, to save his life. Do you understand? I might never see my funny, smart, _goofy_ kid ever again, and I’m agreeing to it willingly, because I would sacrifice anything for him.”

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, despite his furious blinking.

“I’m giving up my son to keep him safe, but a boy needs his father. I can’t be there for him, so you had better be the best father in the whole universe in my place. I don’t care how busy you are running your war—you damn well better make time for him. You need to listen to him ramble on about the newest television show that he’s obsessing over, and listen to him when he talks about his dreams, even though it drives you crazy. You need to listen to him when he complains about school, and be patient when he tests his boundaries—which he will—and give him Christmas presents and celebrate his birthday. You had better give him a hug when he needs it, even when he doesn’t want you to. You need to tell him that you’re proud when he does something great, and give him a kick in the ass when he does something stupid.”

Ron was openly weeping now, but he continued, “You better love him, even when you want to hate him, and you better make sure that he knows it, even when he hates you.”

Optimus nodded solemnly, “I will.” He vowed.

“Do right by my son, Optimus.” Ron said after he had composed himself. It was a directive and a threat, both.

“I will not fail him, Ron.” Optimus replied, somber and serious, and Ron nodded in response.

“Thank-you.” He said quietly, and then because he had to know he asked, “How long until we dock?”

Optimus shuttered his optics and replied, “Approximately three hours.”

Ron nodded, feeling his heart clench at the news.

“Then if you will excuse me, I am going to go spend the last few hours I have with my son. Please see to it that we are not disturbed.”

Optimus nodded once again, and Ron stared at the Autobot leader’s face searchingly for a long moment. Satisfied with what he saw, Ron turned and headed back to the flight deck door without another word.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam sat staring at the television, only peripherally aware of the plot of the soap opera that was currently playing. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that he was watching the show, because he wasn’t, but he was looking in the direction of the screen to maintain appearances. All of his focus was on his mother, who sat beside him on the couch, holding his hand tightly in her lap.

Neither of them spoke.

Sam tried hard not to think about all of the times that his mother had hugged him, or kissed his forehead, or ran her fingers through his hair, and he had pulled away from her, complaining.

_Such a child._ He thought to himself, grimly, _Didn’t realize that she wouldn’t be around forever._

It was a surprisingly long time before Williams and his father returned to the lounge. At the sound of his father’s heavy footsteps, his mother turned around and pinned him with her trademark disapproving frown.

“Honestly, Ron, did you go piss off the side of the ship? What took you so long?”

His father shrugged. 

“I had something I needed to do.”

He sat down heavily in the armchair that he had occupied before he’d left, drumming his fingers on the upholstery for a minute or two, before he pinned them with a heavy look.

“The ship’s going to dock in three hours.” He said, grimly, “We need to be ready to go when it does.”

His mother’s grip tightened on his fingers. Sam lifted his bad hand and put it over hers, squeezing back gently.

“Do you guys know where you’re going?” He asked, after a heavy pause.

Ron lifted one shoulder in a haphazard shrug.

“Somewhere in the United Kingdom, we’ve been told.”

Sam frowned. It was one thing to be forced to go into hiding, it was another thing entirely to be expected to leave the country. He opened his mouth to inquire further, but his father headed him off.

“Don’t know much more than that, Sam. We’ll be moving around a lot over the next couple of months.”

There was a distant look on his father’s face that made Sam’s insides twist with guilt. He knew how much his dad loved their house, and how much pride he took in maintaining his property. Sam had spent many hours with his father as he weeded, mowed, whippersnipped, and landscaped their small piece of California to his satisfaction.

The guilt in his stomach grew heavy, nauseating.

“I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this.” He said quietly.

His father’s head snapped up and his eyes narrowed sharply.

“No. Don’t you dare apologize. None of this was your fault.”

Sam’s eyes fell to his lap. He knew in a detached sort of way that his father was right, but it didn’t assuage the guilt that was twisting up his insides.

“Well, I’m sorry anyway. For how it all turned out.” Sam paused, “Will you ever be able to go back home?”

The anger on his father’s face softened into an expression of fond exasperation.

“Sam, don’t worry about us. I’m three years away from retirement. You know that we were going to buy an RV and travel; we’re just stepping up the timeline a bit.” His father’s voice became sardonic as he continued, “Besides, our vacation to Paris was cut short, and I’d like the chance to see Europe.”

The corner of Sam’s lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. His parents had been talking about their retirement plans for as long as he could remember—they’d probably been planning it since before he’d been born.

His mother carded her fingers through his hair for the umpteenth time in the last hour, and sighed in annoyance.

“I hope they have a barber on staff wherever you’re going.” She said, “I don’t want you looking like some transient.”

His father huffed a dry laugh.

“It’s a military base, Judy. I promise you, they’ll have a barber.”

For some reason, the discussion about his hair reminded him of Mikaela. Keenly aware of how little time they had left, Sam looked over his shoulder at the clock hanging in the kitchenette. It had been almost two hours since his parents had finished their debriefing. What was taking her so long?

Sam stood up and walked over to Williams, who had resumed his position by the door. The solider smiled at him as he approached.

“Hey Sam. What do you need?”

“Robin, do you know when Mikaela will be finished her debriefing? It’s been hours.” He asked.

A small frown furrowed Robin’s brow, “I told Richmond that we would either be in the officer’s lounge or the conference room. I’m sure he’ll bring her when she’s free.” 

Anxiety was building in Sam’s chest at the prospect of waiting any longer to speak with her. Time was rapidly running out.

“Could you go check to see how much longer it’ll be? We have less than three hours.” Sam asked, plaintively.

The soldier nodded slowly and got to his feet.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Sam nodded in relief, leaning against the wall as the solider stepped into the corridor. From behind him, his mother loudly announced, “You know what? I’m starving. Ron, do you want anything to eat?”

His father waved her off, shaking his head. His mother stood up and walked across the room to the kitchenette, opening the small fridge and rummaging around. She talked to herself quietly as she worked, pulling out condiments and foodstuff. Once she had retrieved what she wanted, she began opening and closing cupboards and pulling open drawers, retrieving plates and cutlery. She was halfway through making a sandwich when Williams returned. Sam looked at him in anxious anticipation, before he noticed the stymied look on the soldier’s face. His heart sank.

“I’m sorry Sam. Mikaela’s briefing ended forty-five minutes ago. She’s not in the office or in the conference room.”

It only took Sam the space of a heartbeat to realize what had happened.

When Sam had started applying to colleges, Mikaela had been enthusiastic and supportive. She had helped him prepare applications to Stanford, UCLA, and Berkeley without complaint. She even helped him price-check residences, search for apartments, and research potential programs. But once he had decided to apply to Princeton and MIT, she had become cagey and distant. Throughout the entire process, she carefully avoided discussion about the east coast schools, always directing conversation back to his top picks in California. When he had made the decision to accept Princeton’s enrollment offer, she hadn’t spoken to him for two days. When she finally accepted his calls, she had told him that she was breaking up with him. Sam had been completely blindsided, and they proceeded to have the worst fight of their relationship. It had taken hours for Sam to ferret out the root of the problem: Mikaela wasn’t willing to move to the east coast with him, and she didn’t want a long-distance relationship. They had eventually agreed on a compromise: he would fly home for every break, and she’d fly up on long weekends. Their relationship had gone on, but there was notable strain between them that hadn’t been there before.

Sam’s eyes closed in pain. He knew, instinctively _knew_, that she had made the decision to leave him. This avoidance was to protect them both from the pain of a protracted good-bye.

The first thought that crossed his mind was that he had to go and find her. He had to try to reason with her, to make her see that their relationship was something special—something worth the sacrifice, the distance, and the heartache. With great difficulty, he set that impulse aside. Sam was fully aware of Mikaela’s feelings about long distance relationships, and he loved her too much to inflict a lifetime of loneliness and separation on her.

To his surprise, Sam felt a twist of anger. After everything that he had experienced over the last week, did she really need to do this right now? When he only had three hours left with his parents? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized that’s exactly why she did it. Mikaela wanted him to spend his remaining time with his mom and dad, instead of fighting with her.

He sighed heavily. If Megatron could outdo the shittiness of the last few days, then Sam would be forced to applaud the Decepticon in sinister appreciation.

His morose thoughts were interrupted by his mother, who called over her shoulder towards them, “What do you want on your sandwich Robin? Tuna or turkey?”

Sam almost laughed at the surprised expression on the soldier’s face.

“Uh, that’s okay Mrs. Witwicky, I’m not hungry.” He said, haltingly but politely.

“Oh nonsense! Look at the size of you. You need the calories if you’re going to keep those muscles.” She replied.

In the face of her persistence, Williams shrugged helplessly, “Tuna then, thank-you.”

His mother hummed in acknowledgement, and went about fixing the solider a sandwich. In short order, she brought them each a small plate. Sam looked down and saw that she had made him a turkey sandwich, just the way he liked it. He was caught completely by surprise by the wave of emotion that rocked him at the sight. He had to turn around abruptly to hide his expression from his mother.

When he had composed himself a moment later, he settled down at the trestle table across from Williams and his mom. He ate his sandwich slowly, savoring every bite as he tried to burn into his mind the memory of the last meal she’d ever make him. When he had finished, Sam murmured thanks to his mother and stood up. He gathered their plates, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as he did so, and walked the dishes over to the sink.

Shortly thereafter, Sam found himself back on the couch with another one of his father’s shows playing on the television. This time, however, none of them spoke. They sat in companionable silence, occasionally making eye contact with one another and exchanging faint smiles, as the episode rolled on. Then another, and another after that. In no time at all, there was a loud crackle as the PA system came to life and a voice was instructing all hands on board to prepare for arrival. Sam and his father exchanged a grim look as they got to their feet. Williams was there, then, with a serious expression on his face.

“Let me take you to your quarters to retrieve any of your personal effects, and then we need to head to the flight deck.” He said.

“Alright,” His mother said resolvedly, “Let’s go.”

Williams turned around and led them out of the officer’s lounge. Sam tried to pay attention, he did, but his heart was starting to pound quickly and there was static building in his mind. 

_This was it. It was happening._

As though in a dream, Sam followed Williams as he led them through the ship. It seemed to be only a moment before he was standing in the small room that had been his quarters for the last three days—though he’d barely spent any time there. Sam grabbed the brown paper bag that Williams had given him outside of the brig, quickly sweeping up the pill bottles and the toiletries and the bottle of water that he’d laid out on the bedside table. He was in such a daze that he almost missed the note. It wasn’t until he had turned on his heel to leave the room that the slip of white paper caught his eye, resting on his pillow. 

Sam stared at it for a long moment, his heart tightening painfully as he recognized his name written in Mikaela’s neat scrawl. He bent down and picked up the folded note with numb fingers. He knew exactly what this was, and he found that he had no desire to add to the emotional turmoil he was already feeling. Without opening the note, he slipped the piece of paper into his pocket and stepped back out into the corridor. His mother and father were waiting for him, both holding a small duffle bag. Williams looked at each of them in turn.

“All set?”

Ron nodded in response, “Ready as we’ll ever be.”

Williams nodded curtly and gestured for them to follow. Sam clutched at the paper bag reflexively as they walked, mildly distracted by the hubbub around him. The ship, which had been quiet over the last three days, had become a hive of activity. Soldiers were streaming through the halls, talking animatedly with one another as they took up posts, changed shifts, and prepared to finish docking. So it was that Sam stepped out onto the flight deck into a flurry of organized chaos. He weaved his way around officers and soldiers who were briskly moving back and forth across the deck. At last, Sam came to stand at the edge of the deck and stare out over the water at Camp Lemonnier. The naval base was visible in the distance, rows of white buildings situated in the dusty desert. Immediately in front of him was the dock, an enormous expanse of metal platforms that extended into the ocean up and down the shore. The USS Theodore Roosevelt was resting at the far end of the marina, its gangplank extended to the dock. There was a collection of soldiers and black SUVs and camo-colored military trucks assembled on the shore.

Sam’s eyes swept the shoreline, taking it all in. He frowned as he noticed the Autobots further away, closer to the base’s perimeter fence. Optimus, Ratchet, and Ironhide were in their bipedal forms, while the others were in their alt forms. After a moment, he looked purposefully away.

Williams coughed behind them politely, and Sam glanced at him over his shoulder.

“We have to head on down now.” He said, an apology in his voice.

Ron nodded, and they slowly made their way across the ship. The entire journey passed as though it was a dream; Sam put one foot in front of the other until he was on dry ground again, standing in the semi-circle of identical black SUVs that he had seen from the flight deck.

Sam swallowed hard, closing his eyes as he braced himself.

_Don’t cry. _He thought to himself, desperately.

Suddenly, Sam’s mother was there, holding his face in her hands as her expression softened in affection.

“Sammy,” She murmured, her eyes searching his face, “You’ll be okay. This will be hard, but you’ll come out of it stronger. I know it.”

_Don’t cry. Don’t you fucking do it._

Sam swallowed hard, his hands coming up to rest on her arms.

“I’ll be fine.” He confirmed softly, “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

His father grabbed him tight, holding him close for a heartbeat.

“Be good Sam.” His father’s rough voice puffed in his ear, “Be good and be safe. Be _happy._”

_Oh, Jesus fucking Christ._

His mother ran her hands through his hair, and then dropped them down to smooth over his shoulders.

“You’ll be okay.” She repeated, like an assurance. Like a plea.

Sam squeezed her arms in his hands.

“I’ll be okay.” He confirmed again, before he caught her gaze and said convincingly, “I’ll be okay, ma.”

Her expression wavered precariously for a fraction of a second, and then she took him in her arms. Sam leaned into her chest, his eyes closing in grief. He tried desperately to memorize the feel of her arms around him, the comforting warmth of her body. It was _agony_, and Sam’s heart lurched painfully in his chest at the sensation.

Held tight by his mother as he was, Sam didn’t see Ratchet stiffen abruptly and snap his head in Sam’s direction.

His family stood there for an interminable time—moments or minutes, it was impossible to say—before Sam heard a polite cough behind them. He lifted his head to see that an unknown agent (soldier?) had stepped close to them. The man had neatly styled hair and a clean-shaven, friendly face. Sam noticed a small pin in the shape of the Autobot insignia affixed to the lapel of his suit.

His expression was quietly sympathetic, “Please, forgive me. Sam, Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, we have to go.”

Sam felt panic flood him in an instant. It was too soon, he still had so much to say. Something on his face must have betrayed his feelings, because his father was there in an instant.

“It’ll be fine Sam. We’ll be okay.”

“Dad.” He tried, but his voice broke on the word.

His father didn’t waver, “You’ll be okay, Sam. You can do this.” He paused, and ducked his head so that he could look Sam in the eye, “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Sam replied, his voice shaking so hard he could barely understand the words.

“I love you, Sammy.” His mother murmured as she kissed the side of his head.

“Love you ma.”

“Sam, if you would please come with me.” The agent interrupted, firmly but gently, his arm raised towards an SUV that was sitting with its door open. Sam’s eyes darted desperately between his mother and his father, before he squeezed his mother’s arms one last time and turned around abruptly. He walked towards the SUV and climbed inside without a backwards glance. As soon as the door closed behind him, Sam dropped his head into his hands and gasped desperately for breath. He could hear muted talking outside of the car, and then he distantly heard a door slam once, twice, and then an engine rolled over. When Sam looked up again, his parents were gone.

Sam sat like that for a long while, his hands pressed against his mouth, staring sightlessly through the windshield. He had no idea how much time had passed, but eventually the door opposite to him opened and William Lennox climbed into the backseat beside him. He started in surprise, opening his mouth to greet the man when he took in the soldier’s appearance. Will’s posture was rigid, his jaw tight and his face stricken. When he pulled the door shut behind him, the older man turned his head and stared steadfastly out the window without a word. 

Sam looked at the soldier for a moment before he asked simply, “They got you too, huh?”

A muscle jumped in Will’s jaw, but he did not reply and Sam did not press him any further. The two of them sat in tense silence for several minutes, until both front doors of the SUV opened simultaneously. The agent from earlier climbed into the passenger seat and smiled at them from over his shoulder.

“Captain Lennox, Sam.” The man greeted them, “My name is Dave Carter. It’s nice to finally meet you both. I am Optimus Prime’s personal assistant.”

“His personal assistant?” Sam repeated in surprised disbelief, “Like an actual personal assistant? Or some Autobot version of the term?”

The corner of Dave’s mouth turned up in a smile, “Like an actual personal assistant. I manage his calendar, arrange meetings, answer phone calls and e-mails, the whole nine yards. I am responsible for managing Optimus’ daily business and his personal affairs.”

As Carter spoke, the driver started the ignition and pulled away smoothly. The SUV trundled towards the perimeter fence and, after flashing his identification, the driver pulled through the gate and continued into the depths of the base. It was no time at all before the SUV pulled to a stop in front of a small private jet, its ramp extended to the tarmac. As soon as the car came to a stop, Dave was climbing out of the car and pulled open Sam’s door.

“This way please, Sam.” He said.

Sam climbed up the stairs towards the plane, following the agent closely. Inside was a small but upscale cabin, lined in white leather seats and gray carpeting. There was a glossy oak table on one side of the plane, with two seats on each side. Dave walked to the nearest of these and sat down, gesturing for Sam and Will to do the same. Will worked his jaw for a moment before he stepped forward and sat down across from the agent, taking the seat nearest to the window. Sam sat down beside him a moment later.

A flight attendant came out of the small galley in the back of the plane, approaching their table. She was dressed in a professional looking charcoal pantsuit, her hair in a tight bun at the nap of her neck.

“Good afternoon gentlemen, welcome aboard.” She said, her voice smooth and pleasant.

“Hello again Tanya.” Dave greeted. The flight attended nodded at him, and then turned her attention to Sam and Will.

“Captain Lennox, Mr. Witwicky, may I have your phones please?” She asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Will stiffen from head to toe. The flight attendant must have seen it too, for she continued apologetically, “I am sorry, but all civilian telecommunications equipment is vulnerable to Decepticon interference. I will need your phones before we can take off.”

Sam frowned at her. His phone had all of his text messages with Mikaela and his parents, plus all of the pictures and videos he’d taken over the last two years. He was opening up his mouth to protest when Will reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, handing it to her without a word. Sam glanced at the soldier in surprise.

“Sam.” Was all Will said, jerking his head towards the flight attendant. 

Sam nodded slowly, pulling out his own phone and handing it to her quietly. 

“Thank-you both. Do you care for any refreshments? Water? Tea?”

“Any chance you have Lagavulin?” Will asked dryly.

“Of course Captain Lennox.” The flight attendant confirmed before turning her focus on Sam, “And yourself, Mr. Witwicky?”

Sam shrugged, and tried hopefully, “I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Right away.” The flight attended responded, pivoting on her heel and returning to the galley in the back of the plane. Sam’s eyebrows raised to his hairline in surprise. He hadn’t thought that would actually work.

The corners of Dave’s mouth quirked in barely concealed amusement.

“Eighteen years is the age of consent on most military bases, Sam. Optimus has decided to adopt the same for Diego Garcia since it was acquired by the Autobots.”

Sam nodded slowly in response, relieved to hear it. At least he wasn’t going to be considered a minor, on top of everything else.

Then, a sudden thought occurred to him: he had no clue what Lagavulin even was. Was it whiskey? Scotch? He frowned briefly in consternation. His limited experience with alcohol had been mostly beer and hard cider. Once he had tried bourbon at Miles’ house when his parents had been out of town, but he hadn’t cared for it.

His train of thought was interrupted when Dave pulled out a briefcase and set it on the table, thumbing it open. He handed a thick manila folder to Sam, who placed it on the table in front of him, and then he was passing them each an identification badge on a black lanyard.

“Please keep these badges on your person at all times. They control what areas of the base you have access to, including the ranges, the labs, and your personal quarters.”

Sam glanced down curiously. The badge was the size of a credit card. It had his picture in one corner, his name and identification number in the center. There was a long barcode at the bottom. In the top right-hand corner of the badge was printed “G2”. Sam slipped the lanyard over his heard obediently, and then turned his attention to the folder in front of him. Before he could open the folder, however, the flight attendant was back. She set coasters down in front of him and Will, on which she placed identical tumblers filled with two fingers of a light amber-colored liquid. To Dave, she handed what appeared to be a glass of ice water.

“Please fasten your seatbelts in preparation for take-off. Is there anything else you require before we are in the air?”

“No, thank-you Tanya.” Dave said politely, and she nodded once before returning to the aft of the plane. Sam dutifully fastened his seatbelt, tightening it more than strictly necessary. He had never been a fan of flying.

Will lifted his tumbler to his mouth and took a sip, staring resolutely out the window.

Sam glanced back at the folder, opening it to find a neat stack of papers staring back at him.

“This is the standard welcome docket that all the new recruits receive.” Dave explained, “It contains information about the SOPs of the base, including information about shifts and duty rosters. It also contains information about the command structure of NEST.”

Sam’s curiosity was heightened, and he began to flip through the papers. The first sheet was a generic welcome letter, with the NEST insignia in one corner and the Autobot insignia in the other. He skimmed through it quickly. The next page was much more interesting. It was a simple flow chart entitled ‘NEST Command Structure – Terrestrial’. At the top of the diagram was Optimus Prime’s name, with the words _Supreme Commander_ below his name in brackets. There was an arrow from his name down to a level titled _Sub-Commanders_, where he saw Ratchet (Chief Medical Officer), Ironhide (Weapons Specialist), Wheeljack (Chief Science Officer), and Jazz (Special Ops). Printed below Jazz’s name in small letters was the word ‘Incapacitated’. Beside Jazz’s name was William Lennox (Special Ops).

There was another downward arrow and this level was labeled _Commanders_. On this line he saw Bumblebee (Scout), Arcee (Scout), Chromia (Infiltrator), Elita-One (Infiltrator), Jolt (Shock trooper), Mudflap (Theoretician), and Skids (Messenger).

There was another downward arrow and what Sam assumed to be the human command structure began. There was an arrow connecting this sub-tier directly to Will’s name. 

Sam turned the page and blinked in surprise. This was a far more complicated flow chart, titled ‘NEST Command Structure – Complete’. A legend informed him that black names referred to Autobots on Earth, whereas grayed out names referred to Autobots whose location was unknown. This flowchart began with the grayed out name Sentinel Prime (Autobot Leader), who was connected to Optimus Prime. On this chart there was another tier below Optimus’ name titled _Secondary Commanders_. A series of gray names were listed, including Prowl (Chief Military Strategist), Ultra Magnus (City Commander), and Kup (Elite Guard).

There were many more grayed out names on the Sub-Commanders line and the Commanders line, most of which Sam had never heard of before. He thought he recognized the names Hot Rod and Preceptor, and he remembered Bumblebee talking about the mech named Cliffjumper, who was listed on the Commanders line.

The lines connecting teams and officers on this flow chart were far more complicated, and Sam gave up trying to make sense of it after a few moments. When he looked up from the paper, he realized that the plane was already in the air.

“I had no idea the command structure at NEST was so complicated.” He admitted, as he picked up his glass and brought it to his mouth. He was keenly aware of Lennox watching him out of the corner of his eye, so Sam schooled his face into a neutral expression and took a sip—the amber liquid burned all the way down.

_Smooth. _He thought, grimacing internally.

“It’s very complicated.” Dave agreed.

“Why are the NEST human soldiers automatically at the bottom of the hierarchy?” Sam asked curiously.

“It’s a matter of practicality.” Will replied, surprising him, “The Autobots share a tactical communications network that they utilize during battle. It allows them to share instantaneous information about situational updates, troop movements, enemy combatants, and more. The battlefield command structure can change battle-to-battle, even minute-to-minute, depending on who is engaged, who is injured, and who arrives to reinforce. Since humans don’t have access to the tacnet, they are placed below Autobots in the command structure.”

Sam nodded slowly and continued to leaf through the docket. There was information about non-disclosure clauses and confidentiality agreements that was all too familiar. There was also information about the different shops, services, and mess halls on base, including their location and hours of operation. By the time Sam had worked his way through the packet, his tumbler was empty. 

Dave smiled at him as he looked up from the folder.

“Any questions?” Dave asked.

_Only about a million_. Sam thought to himself.

“What am I going to do all day?” He asked aloud instead.

“You are going to be attending university remotely.” Dave replied, much to Sam’s surprise, “You will be taking a combination of on-line and experiential learning courses. Although you are free to choose whatever major you wish, you will be required to take a minor in political science.”

“I already told Optimus thanks but no thanks about the Ambassador position.” He said frowning.

Dave only shrugged sympathetically, and Sam sat back with a huff. Honestly, the Autobot leader could be like a dog with a bone when he took a mind to it.

“Where am I going to be staying?” He asked, changing the subject.

“There have been quarters set aside for you in the officer’s section of the main compound.” Dave replied.

Sam nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to share a room. He had had fears that he’d be stuck in a large communal barracks like the berthing compartment he had seen on the battleship.

“When will I get my stuff from my dorm room?” He asked next.

Dave’s face softened sympathetically, “Unfortunately, your things have been confiscated by the American government. Although I am sure we will get them back eventually, your personal effects have been replaced in the interim.”

Sam blinked at the man across the table, “Come again?”

“New clothing, toiletries, books, and other effects have been purchased on your behalf. If you need or want anything else, you will go through Procurement. You’ve been assigned a monthly stipend to cover your expenses.”

“Assigned a monthly stipend? Assigned by who? For what?”

“Your stipend comes from Optimus’ budget line. It has been set aside for your personal use; there are no stipulations attached.”

The answer was so unbelievable that Sam hardly knew what part to address first.

“Wait, you’re saying that Optimus is paying me an _allowance_?” He asked, torn between hilarity, disbelief, and irritation all at once.

Dave shrugged, “I guess you could think of it that way, but Prime has budget lines for all of the Cybertronians under his command. That includes you as well, Captain Lennox.”

Will waved the man off, sipping at a second glass of whiskey. This was all old news to him, Sam knew.

Dave reached once again into his briefcase and pulled out two identical looking cellphones, handing them across the table first to Will and then to Sam.

“These phones are for your use. They have been calibrated to allow functionality within the main bunker, which (due to its construction as well as its security features) impairs the signal of regular cell phones.”

Sam stared at the phone curiously, before powering it on with a press of his thumb. Expecting the logo of a popular consumer electronics developer, he was therefore surprised to see the Autobot symbol appear, stark black against the white loading screen. When the phone finished powering on, he saw it was relatively similar to the operating system of an iPhone, but with far fewer pre-loaded applications. He had a text icon, a phone icon, an e-mail icon, and a web browser. At the bottom of the screen there was a red icon with an exclamation mark. Out of curiosity, Sam opened the contacts list and was surprised to see the names of every Autobot on base listed, as well as a list of human contacts that included both Dave and Will. Sam closed out of the contacts list and stared again at the red icon at the bottom of the screen. He lifted his eyes to Dave, opening his mouth to voice the question when the agent cut him off.

“It’s a panic button.” He explained, “Press and hold for three seconds, and it will send an alert to the tacnet.”

“Do these only work within the base?” Will asked, “Or can we also make international calls?”

Dave shook his head, “Wheeljack is working on it, but international calls require satellite connectivity, and it’s too great of a risk with Soundwave still in orbit.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask Dave to explain further, but the PA system cracked to life and a male voice announced, “Please prepare for arrival. We be will on the ground in five minutes.”

He glanced down at his watch, surprised to see that they had been in the air for over three hours. Dave reached into his lap and fastened his seatbelt once again, and Sam quickly followed suit. The flight attendant appeared then, gathering up the glassware and cleaning off the table, before she took her seat in the aft of the plane.

Sam glanced out the window, and he had to admit that the view was beautiful. The late afternoon sun glinted off the vast expanse of cerulean water, which lapped at the white sand beaches of the atoll. When he craned his neck, he could see the military installation in the near distance, neat lines of white buildings and large hangars interspersed with open training areas and bordered by dense forest.

It was no time at all before the plane made a smooth landing, and taxied to a stop at the end of the runway. The speaker cracked to life once again.

“Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome you to Diego Garcia. Local time is 4:14 PM and it is a balmy 32 degree Celsius. Enjoy your stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if I butchered the Autobot command structure too badly. I am trying to reconcile G1, Autobots: Prime, and Bayverse command structures, and it hasn't been easy. And yes, some familiar faces will be making an appearance in later chapters!


	10. Chapter 10

Dave was in motion as soon as the announcement ended. He stood up, gathering files and tucking them back into his briefcase, which he closed with a well-practiced turn of his wrist. Following his lead, Sam stuffed the welcome packet back into the manila folder and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Please follow me.” Dave said with a smile, heading towards the fore of the plane. As he approached, the cockpit door opened and the pilot stepped into the cabin. He was a tall man, middle aged with salt and pepper hair. His pilot’s uniform was immaculate, and he too had the Autobot insignia pinned beneath the four stripes on his epaulet. 

“Nice flying, Anthony.” Dave complimented him, and the pilot gave him a wry smile before he opened the cabin door, lowering the airstep to the tarmac.

“Thanks Dave.” The pilot replied with a nod as he stepped aside to let them pass. To Sam and Will he said, “Be careful, the first step is awkward.”

Sam heeded the pilot’s advice, holding onto the railing with one hand and his folder with the other as he descended the stairs. There was a black SUV waiting for them on the tarmac, its engine running and the back door already open.

“If you please.” Dave said, gesturing for them to enter the vehicle as he stepped up next to the passenger door. Sam climbed into the backseat without a word, moving over to make room for Will. Once Will was seated, Dave shut the door and climbed into the passenger seat. When he was settled, the driver shifted the SUV into gear and pulled away from the plane. Sam stared intently out the window at the airfield, which was an impressive expanse of space. The taxiway and runway extended for miles, ending near a collection of large, cylindrical fuel tanks that he could just make out in the distance. They drove in the opposite direction, towards the collection of buildings that he had seen from the plane.

Suddenly, a rhythmic buzzing interrupted the silence of the cab. Dave reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, glancing at the display before bringing it to his ear.

“We’ve just landed.” He said, as soon as the call connected. There was a brief pause, and then Dave replied, “Well enough, all things considered.” Sam glanced at the rearview mirror, surprised to see Dave looking back at him. The agent’s gaze shifted away as soon as he made eye contact.

“Sure, that’s no problem. Will do.” Dave said after another pause, and then he disconnected the call and dropped the phone back into his pocket.

“So Sam,” Dave said over his shoulder a moment later, “We just left the airfield. On any given day, you can expect the arrival and departure of up to three dozen aircraft, including B-1, B-2, and B-52 bombers and C-17 transports.” He gestured towards the driver’s side window, through which Sam saw aircraft of various makes and sizes parked in tidy rows.

“The airfield is operational 24/7/365. We can go to a full activation in less than 10 minutes.” Dave continued, and by the way he spoke Sam could tell this was a speech he had given before. He gestured through the windshield towards the buildings that they were approaching. “This is the main compound, which we refer to as the downtown. Most of these buildings are administrative, but that building there is the library center and that one is the medical center. It’s primarily used for administrative personnel; if you need medical attention, you’ll be treated at the Hive.” Dave glanced towards the driver, “Can you take Constitution Drive? I want to show him the recreation center.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord, “Recreation center?” He repeated dubiously.

Dave grinned at him from over his shoulder. “Diego Garcia has approximately 5000 service personnel and another 500 civilian administrators and support staff. As we’re hundreds of miles from the nearest city center, we have all manner of recreational opportunities on the base to support morale.” After a minute, the SUV took a corner and Sam’s eyes widened in surprise.

“That is the gym and fitness center, and that is the base pool. It’s usually pretty busy in the afternoon, but there are some good spots on the beach I can show you.” Dave continued, and then he pointed to a cluster of buildings on the left side of the street, “That’s the main theatre and that building with the awning is a dining facility. Although the Hive has its own mess hall, that’s where most people go to have a few drinks and watch sports events.”

The driver pulled into a parking lot and turned around, driving back down the way they had come. When they came to a road labeled Britannia Way, the driver turned right. Dave continued pointing out buildings as they drove.

“That’s the main commissary, and that building there holds Procurement—that’s where you’ll go if there’s something you can’t get at the commissary.” The drove a short while further, and then pulled up in front of a large white hangar on the other side of the compound. Once the SUV came to a stop, they all climbed out into the lazy heat of the late afternoon. Sam blinked as he stepped into the bright light, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes.

“C’mon, Sam.” Will said, this time, “This way.”

Will and Dave headed towards the expansive white hangar. There was a large set of closed Autobot-sized double doors facing them, and a human-sized entrance off to the side. There were two soldiers standing at attention by the doors in full combat gear, holding assault rifles across their chest. As they approached, one of the soldiers nodded in greeting.

“Hey Captain, hey Carter. Welcome back.”

“Hey Killian.” Will greeted with an upward jerk of his chin, “How’s it going?”

“Things have been insane over the last few days. More so than usual, I mean.” Killian said, before he looked curiously in Sam’s direction, “This our newest arrival?”

“Sure is.” Will agreed, “Sam, this is Killian Anderson. Killian, this is Sam Witwicky.”

Killian stuck out his hand in greeting, and Sam slowly reached out his own to grasp it. 

“Glad to finally meet you.”

“Yeah, you too.” Said Sam, shifting uncomfortably.

Dave lifted his identification badge and pressed it against a scanner set into the wall by the door. There was an electronic beep, and then a loud _click_ as a locking mechanism disengaged. Killian pulled open the door for them.

“Welcome to the Hive.” He said as Sam stepped passed him into the hangar. The hangar was massive, at least fifty feet high and hundreds of feet in length. However, its most peculiar feature was that it was completely empty excepting a small group of people at the opposite end of the building. Dave and Will walked briskly down the length of the gleaming white space and Sam hastened after them. In short order, they joined the small group of people, who were all standing within a large red square painted on the floor. Once Sam stepped over the red line, more than a little confused as he did so, Dave reached towards a small control panel and pressed his badge against the sensor.

“Steady yourself.” Dave murmured to him in an undertone. The floor jerked beneath them, and then they were descending _through_ the concrete. In astonished surprise, Sam watched as the solid-looking floor rose up over his knees, waist, and chest. It was only the matter of seconds before his head was slipping beneath the concrete.

“What?” He gasped, voice strangled in surprise. Dave and Will shared a knowing grin. The cavernous room into which they were descending was tall enough for an Autobot twice Optimus’ size to walk about comfortably.

“Holotechnology, courtesy of the Autobots. This facility is called the Hive, and it is the heart of NEST operations,” Dave explained as the elevator continued its decent. Unlike the hangar, this room was bustling with noise and activity. Soldiers, technicians, and administrative personnel were coming and going through doors set in uneven increments along the walls. A series of metal scaffolds were attached to the back wall, and extended along both sides of the room, creating platforms at different heights. There were telecommunications displays of various sizes set into the back wall, beneath which a number of technicians sat at a long line of consoles, working busily.

“In addition to acting as NEST’s center of operations, the Hive is designed to be self-sufficient in case the surface facilities are attacked. It is a scaled-down, highly secure version of the base.” Dave explained, “The Hive is roughly organized into four quadrants, which we refer to as North Quad, East Quad, South Quad, and West Quad respectively.”

The elevator had reached the floor, where it disappeared into the cement without a ripple. Dave and Will stepped off the platform and started walking across the room.

“North Quad is designed for human habitation. It contains barracks and officers’ residences, the hospital ward, mess hall, that sort of thing. East Quad is the Research Division. There are laboratories, offices, hangars, and a range. That’s also where you’ll find Wheeljack’s lab.” Dave continued. Sam filed the information away; although he had no idea who Wheeljack was, the name sounded familiar.

“South Quad is admin and tactical support, and it’s mostly empty except during activations. That’s where you’ll find comms and the command room. West Quad is a hodgepodge, but it’s designed primarily for Autobot occupation. That’s where you’ll find the hangars, Ratchet’s medical bay, a training range, and Prime’s office. There are also a handful of conference rooms designed for co-occupation by humans and Autobots.”

Sam nodded slowly, taking in Dave’s words. They had arrived at a large door, and Dave pressed his identification badge to the scanner set in the wall. The door opened silently, and Dave motioned for Sam to step into the hallway beyond, which was tall and wide enough for the Autobots to walk comfortably in their bipedal modes. Sam glanced to his right and noticed colored stripes painted on the wall, extending down the hallway.

Dave noticed his gaze, and helpfully explained.

“We call this the bridge, as it connects all four Quads. If you follow the bridge all the way around, you’ll end up on the other side of the receiving room. The colors on the wall lead you to different Quads, and within each Quad you’ll find additional directions to facilities of interest.”

Dave turned and looked at Sam intently, assessing him from head to toe.

“Do you want the grand tour? Or would you prefer to go to your room?”

Sam didn’t need to ponder his response.

“My room, please.” He replied, quietly.

“Alright, let’s head to North Quad.” Dave acquiesced good-naturedly.

“I will see you both later. I’m due in tactical.” Will said, waving good-bye over his shoulder as he strode away.

Dave and Sam headed in the opposite direction. Dave chatted amicably as they walked, but Sam didn’t say a word. After a few minutes, they came onto a large red door set into the wall, above which “NORTH QUAD” was printed in bold Arial font. Once again, Dave pressed his badge against a keycard scanner and the door opened with a hiss.

“I get why you said to keep the badge on me at all times.” Sam said dryly, breaking his silence.

Dave grinned at him.

“The Hive was designed with security in mind, and they weren’t playing around.” Dave agreed. They continued walking, and Sam found it surprisingly easy to navigate through the Quad. There was plenty of signage and markers, and it was no time at all before they stepped into the residence area. Dave stopped outside of a nondescript door and motioned toward the keycard reader.

“Care to do the honors?” Dave asked.

Sam lifted the card on the lanyard around his neck, and pressed it against the scanner. There was an electronic chirp as a green light flashed, and then a _click_ as the locking mechanism on the door released. Sam pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room within would have easily passed as a decent hotel room. They were standing within a small living space, which had a couch and two armchairs arranged around a squat coffee table. A television was mounted to the wall across from the couch, above an inset bookshelf that was full of paperback novels. Sam trailed over slowly, craning his neck to take in the book titles, surprised to find that he had read most of them.

Along the back wall of the room there was a minimalist desk on which sat a computer monitor and assorted office supplies. To the right of the entryway was a square entrance to the bedroom. Sam stood in the center of the living space, slowly looking around the room until his eyes landed on Dave.

“Do you need anything?” The aid asked.

“No.” Sam murmured.

“Alright, well I will come back later to escort you to the medical bay.”

He didn’t say anything in response, standing stiffly with his hands in his pockets. Dave nodded and stepped back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Sam looked slowly around the room, feeling completely out of his depth.

After a moment, he decided to be practical, opting to explore the space that was to be his residence for the foreseeable future. He went to the desk first, pulling open drawers and flipping through a stack of papers that had been left for him. There was a map of the Hive on the top of the stack, outlining points of interest and hours of operation for its various facilities. Beneath the map was a thick course catalogue for Stanford’s online program. He flipped through the pages slowly before he noticed that one of them was dog-eared; opening to the dog-eared page, Sam saw the introduction to the political science section.

“Subtle, Optimus.” He muttered.

Sam set the catalogue aside and looked through the rest of the papers. There was information about Stanford’s academic calendar, add/drop dates, university policies, and more. After he finished skimming the materials, Sam set the papers aside and walked towards the bedroom. It contained a full-sized bed already made with military precision: corners tucked tight and sheets turned down. A blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the mattress. There was a closet on one side of the bedroom and an open bathroom door on the other.

Sam moved about the room, pulling open drawers in the bedside tables (which were empty) and then opening up the closet. He was surprised to find that the closet was full of clothing. Most of the clothes were casual wear, including brands and styles that he wore frequently. He was dismayed, however, to find a variety of formal wear at the far end of the closet. These clothes ranged from less formal (slacks and sport jackets) to way too formal (a full dress suit, hanging in a garment bag).

Sam closed the closet door, sincerely hoping he’d never have cause to wear that suit.

He wandered into the bathroom next, opening drawers and looking through the linen closet. When Sam noticed the toiletries arranged neatly along the edge of the tub, he suddenly realized how travel-worn and grubby he felt. His short, cold shower on the battleship had been his only wash in the better part of a week. Sam opened the linen closet again, pulling out a towel and a face cloth, before he shut the door and shucked his clothes.

What followed was the hottest shower of Sam’s life. After he had finished washing himself, he stood under the spray of water for a long time as steam filled the bathroom. He had expected to break down the moment he was finally alone, but he was distantly surprised to realize that he was completely numb. He knew that this stark apathy should be cause for concern—surely it wasn’t a healthy response to everything he’d been through over the last week—but he found that he couldn’t muster the energy to care. 

He stepped out of the shower, drying himself quickly before he walked to the bedroom closet with the towel wrapped loosely around his waist. It was no time at all before Sam was lying on the couch in the living room, dressed in lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt, staring sightlessly at the television. He spent the next few hours flipping through 200 channels of cable television, not absorbing a single thing he saw.

A loud chime suddenly cut through the din of the television, causing Sam to jerk sharply in surprise. He grimaced as the motion pulled at the burns on his chest and made his ribs stab warningly. He glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, when another chime sounded in the room. It was then that Sam noticed a red light blinking urgently by the entryway, and he realized that the chime was a doorbell. He stood up slowly, walking across the room to pull open the door. Dave stood in the hallway with a warm smile on his face, holding a cafeteria tray full of food.

“I figured that you wouldn’t be up to finding the mess hall tonight, so I thought I’d bring you some supper.” He said.

Sam stared at the tray emotionlessly for a moment before he remembered his manners. Mustering up enough energy to affix a smile to his face, Sam took the tray and replied, “Thanks Dave. I appreciate it. It’s been a long day.”

The friendly expression on the PA’s face never wavered, but his gaze sharpened.

“Did you find everything okay? Is there anything else you need?”

“Nope, I’m good. Thanks.” Sam replied.

Dave shifted on his feet and nodded slowly.

“Okay, well, bon appetite. I’ll be back at eight to take you to the medical bay.”

Sam smiled at him again, nodding in acquiescence as he stepped back into his apartment. The smile vanished the moment he shut the door. He glanced down at the tray, realizing that it contained some of his favorite foods—a slice of pizza, some pasta salad, garlic bread—but it may as well have been ground glass, for all that it stimulated his appetite.

Sam set the tray down on the nearest side table, laying back on the couch and reaching for the remote.

* * *

Sam stared at the CNN anchor on the television, who was talking animatedly with a heavy British accent. He had given up trying to find something banal to watch, drawn instead to the news coverage of the Princeton attack (as it was now being called) like a moth to the flame.

It was an interminable time later when the chime sounded again in the room. Sam sighed heavily, pushing himself into a sitting position before he walked towards the entryway. When he pulled the door open, he was unsurprised to see Dave standing in the corridor with an upbeat expression on his face.

“You good to go?” Dave asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Sam said, voice rough, “Let me get my shoes.”

He stepped into the corridor a few moments later, pulling the lanyard over his head as he shut the door behind him. Dave turned around and started walking, and Sam fell into step beside him. He was mildly surprised at the number of people they passed as they walked; despite the late hour, the Hive was still a bustle of activity. In short order, they arrived at the North Quad entrance to the bridge, and Sam pulled up in confusion.

“I thought you said that the hospital ward was in the North Quad.” Sam said, and Dave looked at him over his shoulder in surprise.

“It is. I’m taking you to see Ratchet in the medical bay.”

Sam stiffened from head to toe as anger and anxiety flooded through him in an instant.

“No.” He replied, distantly surprised by the coldness in his voice.

Dave’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, his features clouding in confusion.

“What?” The aid asked, turning around to face him.

“I said no. Ratchet and I are not on speaking terms right now.”

Surprise flashed across Dave’s face, replaced quickly by concern.

“Sam, you need to have your bandages changed. Ratchet was insistent.”

Sam lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Then I guess you have a judgment call to make. Take me to the hospital ward or I’m going back to bed.”

The concern on Dave’s face noticeably deepened, “Sam, please—“

Sam narrowed his eyes at the older man, and Dave abruptly bit off whatever he was about to say. After a moment of silent deliberation, the aid sighed heavily and started walking back the way they came.

“Ratchet is going to give me a pile of shit for this.” Dave grumbled.

Sam shrugged sympathetically, “Probably.”

They walked together in silence for the better part of five minutes before Dave’s phone started buzzing. The aid pulled the phone out of his pocket and sighed heavily.

“Here we go.” He muttered. He unlocked the device and rapidly composed a text message.

The corner of Sam’s lips quirked in a genuine smile. “If it helps, I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The aid replied, composing a third text. He was still texting when they walked into the hospital ward ten minutes later.

As soon as he stepped into the pristine white room, which was unnervingly similar to the hospital ward on the Theodore Roosevelt, a young woman in military fatigues stood to greet them. Judging by the seriously put-upon expression on her face, Dave wasn’t the only one that Ratchet had contacted. Sam braced himself.

“Mr. Witwicky, I’ve been told to send you to the medical bay.” She said by way of greeting, and Sam struggled to control the irritation that stabbed at him.

“Listen, Doctor…” He glanced at the nametape on her shoulder, “…Lewis, I couldn’t care less whether these bandages get changed tonight. It’s you or nothing, what’s it going to be?”

She opened her mouth to argue, when Sam had a flash of insight. He cut her off before she could get a word in edge-wise, “I’m outside of NEST jurisdiction, yes?”

The doctor’s jaw clenched minutely, “That’s correct. Only Optimus Prime has direct authority over you.”

Sam nodded, “Alright then. Would Prime rather you change my bandages or would he rather I go back to my room?”

The doctor huffed an irritated sigh, arms crossed over her chest. After a moment she seemed to come to a decision, “You’re lucky Ratchet didn’t give me a direct order not to treat you.” She said, and the tension eased out of Sam’s body.

“Thank-you.” He replied quietly, but she waved him off as she gestured towards a nearby bed.

“Don’t thank me. I took an oath to do no harm, and that includes neglect.”

Sam climbed up onto the bed and pulled off his shirt. The doctor moved around the room, opening cabinets and gathering supplies, before she returned to his side. Sam sighed as she pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, bracing himself. The doctor was skilled at her work, quickly and efficiently changing bandages and cleaning his burns. When she pulled at the bandage on his left side, however, Sam couldn’t help the hiss of pain that made its way through his teeth.

The doctor’s eyes snapped to his face immediately.

“That hurt?” She asked sharply.

Seeing no reason to deceive her, he admitted faintly, “That one’s been giving me some trouble.”

She nodded at him, and returned to her work. It was less than five minutes later when she motioned for him to get dressed, before walking across the room to one of the floor-to-ceiling cabinets that lined the wall. She returned in short order, handing him a familiar paper cup containing an assortment of medication.

Sam felt himself stiffen defensively.

“What are they?” He demanded.

She glanced at him as she moved back to the tray of supplies on the overside table. “Ibuprofen, ampicillin, and zolpidem.” She paused, and then clarified, “Ambien.”

Sam frowned into the cup, considering this information carefully. He knew that he had only slept a couple of hours since he’d woken in the brig yesterday evening, but sleeping meant dreaming, and dreaming inevitably meant nightmares. Sighing resignedly, Sam carefully tipped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of water. He handed the cup back to the doctor, who nodded approvingly, and gestured for him to climb down off the bed.

The doctor was leaning against a cluttered desk, her arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“If you’re still feeling self-destructive in the morning, you can come back for your AM dressing change.” She shrugged, “But it’ll be your funeral.”

Sam sighed, his exhaustion making him unusually candid, “I can’t see him. Not yet. Not any of them.”

The doctor regarded him closely before she nodded, “Alright, I’ll let him know. Get some sleep, Sam.”

He murmured his thanks and then walked towards the hospital ward entrance, where Dave was waiting patiently.

“Thanks for taking that bullet for me.” He said by way of greeting.

Dave shrugged. “I’ve been on the receiving end of Ratchet’s temper before. He’ll get over it.”

A wan smile pulled at Sam’s lips.

“Any tips for a first timer?”

Dave looked at him askance, seeming to consider the question seriously.

“If I were you, I’d bite the bullet and get it over with. It’ll be worse the longer you wait.”

Sam sighed heavily as Dave echoed the doctor’s earlier sentiments.

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

It was less than ten minutes before Sam was pressing his identification badge into the card reader by his door. He stepped inside, waving good-bye to Dave as the agent continued down the hall. He toed off his shoes and crossed the room slowly, sitting down on the couch with a sigh. The Ambien was already taking effect, and a pleasant heaviness was pulling at his mind. This was an entirely different experience than the medication he’d taken in the brig—gentler and far less disconcerting.

Sam stretched out on the soft surface, drifting comfortably. He idly wondered whether he should get up and go to bed, but he found himself entirely unwilling to move. The room was dark and quiet, lit only by the television that played on mute in the background. If he didn’t open his eyes, he could almost imagine that he was back home, lazing on the couch after his parents had gone to bed.

He was almost asleep when he heard it.

Faintly, Sam could hear a metallic _tink-tink-tink _coming from the other side of the couch. Blearily, he opened his eyes and looked around the small apartment. The television was dark and quiet, and the only light came from the digital clock on the DVR, washing the room in a faint blue glow.

He blinked confusedly, groggy and disoriented, when he heard it again.

_Tink-tink-tink._

Unfamiliar as he was with the room, he had no idea what the sound could be. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw a flash of movement. His heart started to beat harder in his chest as he stared at the floor by the opposite end of the couch. As he watched in horror, a small metal appendage stretched into sight, followed by another and then another, until at last Scalpel’s body was visible in the din light of the living room.

Sam was too terrified to move.

As Scalpel approached, his needle-like appendages tapped against the floor.

_Tink-tink-tink._

Sam’s eyes darted to the coffee table. His phone sat on the edge, not three feet away. If he could get to it, he could press the panic button, he could—

“Ah, ah, ah.” Scalpel admonished in his high-pitched, accented voice. The little bot was on the table in an instant, spearing the phone with two sharp appendages, “Zat vould be _cheating._”

Sam’s heart was pounding in his chest, his breath coming in fast gasps. He could run. If he could get to the door, then he could get help—but first he had to get up, and he _couldn’t move_.

_Why can’t I move?_

Sam watched helplessly as the little bot made his way onto the arm of the couch and then crawled onto his chest. He could feel the prick of each of its legs, pressing into sensitive skin.

_It’s the medication. It must be the medication. I need to get up. _ **Get up.**

But he couldn’t. His body was heavy and unresponsive, no matter how hard he struggled to move.

The little bot’s optics were inches from his face, narrowed and threatening.

“Ze boss zends his regards.” He hissed, and then a sharp appendage flashed across his throat—

Sam woke up with a guttural scream, falling off the couch and onto his hands and knees. He scrambled away in an uncoordinated flailing of limbs, before he turned over and stared desperately around the room. The television was on, swathing the room in ambient florescent light and his phone was on the table where he’d left it, undamaged. It slowly dawned on him that the entire thing had been a dream.

He managed to make it to the bathroom before he vomited what little was left in his stomach, his knees colliding hard with the tiled floor. He was soaked in sweat, shaking hard enough to chatter his teeth. When his stomach heaved again, Sam gripped the side of the toilet bowl hard.

He sat there for a long time, sucking great gasping breaths and crying into the porcelain, before he was able to get himself under control. Eventually, he crawled into the shower and turned it on, clothes and all. He sat on his ass in the cold spray until all traces of sweat and vomit and tears were washed away. When he was able to stand, he stripped out of his soaked clothing and walked on shaking legs to the bedroom. He opened the closet and pulled out the first pair of pants and long-sleeved shirt that he saw.

Once he was dressed and reasonably calm, he walked around the apartment and turned on every light that he could find. Eventually he sat back down on the couch, his hands pressed over his mouth, staring at the electronic clock on the DVR.

1:29 AM.

Sam had experienced sleep paralysis before, he’d even had some experience with lucid dreaming, but this was beyond any nightmare he’d ever experienced in his life. This has been so real that he’d honestly believed that his throat had been cut.

He slowly reached forward and picked up his cell phone, staring at the display. He surprised to see three missed calls and a dozen text messages—he hadn’t heard a thing. After a minute, he thumbed open the notification center. All three calls were from Bumblebee, he saw, and they had come in at 12:50, 12:55, and 1:01. Thumbing the screen again, he brought up his text messages. Eleven messages from Ratchet, the most recent dated 9:14 PM. One message was from Bumblebee. Sam swiped left on Ratchet’s messages, deleting the entire thread with a press of his thumb. He was not in the mood to be badgered right now, not by half. Instead, he opened the text message from Bumblebee, and he felt a warm throb in his chest as he read it.

_Bumblebee: I’m here if you want to talk about it._

Sam cradled the phone in his hands, blinking rapidly as he read the message again. He was debating whether to reply when the phone vibrated in his palm, Bee’s name flashing on the screen. He hesitated only a moment before he accepted the call. Leaning back against the couch, he brought the phone to his ear.

“I’m okay.” He murmured, his voice raw.

There was a considerate pause on the other end of the phone, before Bumblebee asked, “Another nightmare?”

His guardian’s voice was surprisingly calm. Soothing.

“Yeah,” He confirmed after a moment, “It was a doozy.”

To Sam’s surprise, Bee didn’t press him for details.

“Is there anything I can do?” He asked instead.

A pained smile pulled at the corner of his lips. Sam could hear the hesitation in his guardian’s voice—the uncertainty. Bee had known full well that Sam might angrily reject his offer, but he had called anyway, because he was worried. Because he _cared_. All traces of the anger and betrayal that he’d been nursing abruptly vanished, replaced with warm affection.

“This is more than enough.” He murmured into the phone, “Thank-you, Bee.”

Bee replied in Cybertronian, the words sounded soft and affectionate.

“What does that mean?” He asked, curiously.

“It means I’m glad.” The scout replied after a moment, his voice unusually emotive.

There was a comfortable silence before Sam asked, “How was the flight back? I’ve always wanted to fly in a C-17.”

Bee chirped considerately, “You’ve never said.” He replied, “I’m sure it could be arranged.”

Sam huffed a mirthless laugh.

“I doubt I’ll be flying anywhere soon, buddy.” He replied bitterly.

Bee was silent for a moment, his consternation so obvious that Sam found himself assuring the scout.

“Don’t mind me, it’s been a weird day. Have you heard? I’m at the top of Ratchet’s shit list.”

The abrupt about-face must have surprised the scout, for there was a burst of laughter-like static a moment later.

“Oh, not at the top of the list,” Bee corrected, amusement in his voice, “I’d say you’re somewhere below Megatron, but above Dave Carter.”

Sam was surprised by the grin that stretched his face. The expression felt almost alien.

“Poor guy. It’s not like I gave him a choice.”

“Dave’s a tough sort, he’ll manage.” Bumblebee assured him good-naturedly. There was a protracted silence, and then his guardian asked, hesitantly, “Why are you avoiding him?”

Sam sighed heavily, his head falling back to the couch. He’d been asking himself the same thing since he’d dug in his heels at the North Quad door. He was angry the Ratchet had sedated him without his knowledge or consent, but that was pretty much in character for the medic. Although he knew that he’d be having a firm discussion about bodily autonomy and informed consent in the near future, that wasn’t the reason for his avoidance. He was also upset that, as a result of Ratchet’s orders, he had missed out on a whole day with his parents and Mikaela, but that wasn’t it either. For all he knew, he would have just cooled his heels in the brig until that evening anyway. Besides, it’s not as though Ratchet didn’t have good cause: his injuries had been agonizing in the aftermath of his fight with Galloway, and Ratchet _was _a medic, after all.

Sam was forced to admit, at least in the privacy of his own mind, that the real reason he was avoiding Ratchet was that he was afraid. He remembered the terror that had blind-sided him when the medic had checked him out on the flight deck, and that fear had needled its way into his hindbrain and dug in tight. Although he knew Ratchet would never hurt him, the memory of his delicate instruments and appendages brought memories of Scalpel to the fore, and it was just too much. 

Sam sighed, fully aware that he was being irrational.

“I’d rather talk about literally anything else.” He said after a minute.

Bee warbled at him apologetically.

“Tell me about Simfur Temple.” Sam asked suddenly, surprising himself.

“What do want to know?” Bee replied, also sounding surprised.

“Anything. Everything.” Sam replied quietly.

There was a protracted pause, and then Bumblebee was talking. For the next six hours, the scout shared with him stories about his life on Cybertron and his experiences working in the Simfur Temple. Sam listened to him quietly, only interrupting to ask for clarification or to expand on something the scout had said. Bee only stopped talking in the early hours of the morning, when he finally said, “You should get something to eat Sam. Your blood sugar is low.”

Sam took stock of himself, and he was forced to agree. His stomach was hallow-feeling, panging with hunger.

“Okay, sure. I’ll talk to you later.” He paused, “Thanks Bee.”

_Thanks for waking me up. Thanks for distracting me. Thanks for being so goddamn patient._

In lieu of reply, the _Friends_ theme song trilled loudly in his ear. Sam groaned into the mouthpiece before disconnecting the call.

Sam walked into the bedroom first, changing out of his pajamas and into a pair of soft denim jeans and a sweater. He walked into the bathroom next, pulling on socks as he hopped on one foot. When he walked to the sink to wash his hands, his eyes settled on his face and his lips thinned in a grimace.

He looked like shit.

His face was waxy and pale in the harsh florescent light, and the circles under his eyes were so pronounced that they almost looked like bruises. Sam ran a hand over the four-day old stubble on his jaw and made a mental note to buy a razor as soon as possible. Turning away from the mirror, he splashed cold water on his face and then headed into the living area. It took him a moment to find his identification badge, which had fallen under the couch, and then he toed on his shoes and headed out the door.

Sam walked slowly, following the colored lines painted on the wall and paying attention to the signage that was posted at each junction. As he wasn’t in any rush, he took the scenic route, paying attention to the shops and offices he passed as he walked.

He was so absorbed in his exploration of the quad that he nearly collided with someone when he took a corner too sharply. He stumbled back with a surprised _oof, _and opened his mouth to apologize when he recognized Dave standing in front of him. The PA was fresh-faced and neatly groomed, despite the early hour. Dave had been talking animatedly to the man beside him, before Sam’s interruption.

“I’m so sorry, Dave.” Sam said with an apologetic smile, “I wasn’t paying attention, my fault.”

He glanced at Dave’s companion. The stranger was tall, maybe six-foot-two or so, broad shouldered and fit. He had the physique of someone who worked hard for a living. The stranger had short, dark hair shot through with steel gray at the temples. His face was handsome, in an All American sort of way, open and honest. When his bright blue eyes settled on Sam, his expression widened in surprise and then immediately clouded in concern.

“Sam,” Dave greeted, clearly taken aback by his unexpected appearance, “Good morning.” He glanced back and forth between Sam and his companion, “This is—“ 

“Orion.” The man interrupted him, his voice deep and warm, “Orion Pax.”

Dave’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline, as he stared blankly at his companion. 

“Nice to meet you, Orion.” Sam said with a self-deprecating smile, “Sorry about that. I was woolgathering.” 

"Something on your mind?" The older man asked considerately.

Sam huffed a laugh. _Buddy, you have no idea._

“I won’t hold you up any further, I’m off to find something to eat.” He replied instead.

“You know your way?” Dave asked, evidentially back to his usual self.

He lifted a shoulder in a shrug, “I’ll figure it out. I need to learn to find my way around here eventually.”

Sam made to step around them when he saw Dave wince out of the corner of the eye. The expression caught his attention, and he turned to regard the agent closely.

“What’s up?” He asked.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Sam.” He started apologetically, and Sam frowned. The agent’s posture immediately put him on the defensive.

“What is it?”

With the air of a man trying to defuse a bomb, Dave grimaced, “Ratchet insists that you come to the medical bay this morning. I think he’s done asking.”

Sam felt his face flush red, and he narrowed his eyes at the agent, “I can’t even begin to describe how much I don’t give a shit.”

“Sam—“

Upon reflection, Sam would later acknowledge that it was probably the underlying stress exacerbated by the sleep deprivation that made him lose his temper.

“What is so difficult to understand? I am working through a _mountain_ of bullshit right now. I will see Ratchet when I am damn good and ready, and not a moment before!”

Dave’s eyebrows flew up at his outburst, obviously surprised. Orion was watching him quietly, a pensive expression on his face.

Sam stepped around the pair of men with a huff, fully intending to leave without another word but something possessed him to pin the agent with a glare and snap, “I will work through this on my own time. Not Ratchet’s, not Optimus’. _Mine_.”

He almost missed the wince that Dave directed towards Orion, and Sam realized abruptly that he was making a scene.

_So much for first impressions_, he thought with a grimace. Unable to think of a way to salvage the situation, he turned on his heel and walked away.

* * *

The morning passed in a miserable blur. He found the mess hall a short time later, and queued in line at the galley. He piled an assortment of food onto his tray and walked to the cash registers at the end of the hall. He was mildly surprised (and a lot relieved) when he swiped his identification badge and the light blinked green. He found a secluded corner of the mess hall and sat down, working through the tray of food like it was a job and not a meal.

When he had finished his breakfast, having tasted nothing, he carried his tray to the end of the galley and stacked it with the others.

Sam walked out of the mess hall, glancing at the signage across from the entryway. He had a decision to make: hospital ward or medical bay? He knew that he should eat crow and go see Ratchet, but he bucked against the prospect. He had lost his citizenship, his family, his autonomy—he was loathe to present himself meekly to Ratchet at the medic’s say-so. Sam was walking towards the hospital ward before he had consciously made the decision to do so.

When he walked into the ward ten minutes later, he was surprised to see Dr. Lewis waiting for him with an inscrutable expression on her face.

“Come on.” She said, picking up a small tray of medical supplies and walking to the end of the ward.

“Hop up, please.” She said, voice brisk.

Confused by her stiff manner, Sam climbed meekly onto the bed and pulled his shirt over his head. The doctor arranged the supplies on the bedside table, before she said, “Please sit tight.”

She stepped away, pulling the curtain that surrounded the bed partially closed before her footsteps receded back down the hospital ward. Sam blinked in surprise, taken aback. As he waited, he surveyed his surroundings. He was at the very end of the long room, sitting on the last bed on the left. It was quiet here, the bustle of soldiers and hospital corpsman on the other end of the room was a distant noise.

He waited for an interminable time before he heard animated talking coming from down the ward. He cocked his head, trying to listen, but he was unable to make out the words. After a moment, he heard sharp footsteps headed in his direction, and then a man stepped around the curtain.

The stranger was tall and broad shouldered, with grizzled gray hair. He was wearing military fatigues, and a seriously no-nonsense expression on his face. Sam could tell by the insignia pinned to his shoulder that he was a part of the medical corps, but he looked nothing like any doctor that he had ever met.

The man looked him up and down, a disapproving expression on his face.

“How much sleep did you get last night?” He asked, apropos of nothing.

Sam blinked at the man, caught by surprise.

“I’m not sure.” He said, shrugging noncommittally. 

The look on the medic’s face said _‘you’re completely full of shit_’ so clearly that it might as well have been communicated telepathically. 

The man moved towards him and rifled through the medical supplies on the bedside table.

“Trouble sleeping?” He asked at last, voice gruff but not unkind.

Sam sighed heavily. “Something like that.”

The doctor pinned him with a critical look, “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. You’re losing weight.”

Sam frowned at the man, discomforted by his words and taken aback by his bedside manner.

“I’m working through some things.” He said finally. 

“How does ‘working through some things’ prevent you from attending to your physical wellbeing? You are aware that you died four days ago?”

Sam flinched at the sharp words, his eyes falling to the mattress. The doctor wasn’t wrong.

“I’m trying.” He said, softly, after a moment. “I have nightmares. I have flashbacks. I spend every minute of the day waiting for the other shoe to drop.” He looked up at the medic, suddenly desperate to be understood, “I don’t know what to do.”

The hard disapproval in the doctor’s expression softened minutely. He picked up an instrument from the tray of medical supplies; it was small and metallic, vaguely resembling a miniature ear thermometer. The doctor approached and Sam dutifully tilted his head.

“You know, you’re being remarkably difficult about all this.” The doctor grumbled, without heat.

Sam opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark, when the doctor pressed the instrument to the junction of his neck and shoulder. There was a loud _snap-hiss_ and Sam felt a stab of pain. He jerked away roughly in surprise, a hand flying to his neck. When he looked down, he saw a smear of red across his fingertips. He looked back up at the doctor, shocked and horrified in equal measures.

“What the fuck?” He demanded, weakly. He could already feel the medication working its way through his system.

The medic shrugged, “You don’t sleep because you have nightmares. It follows that a modified sedative would help your predicament.”

Sam blinked at the man dumbly, trying to bring the medic back into focus. When he shook his head, the room blurred around him.

Consciousness became fickle as Sam sank down on the mattress with a weak groan. He blinked slowly as the doctor moved towards the tray of medical supplies.

_Darkness_.

He blinked his eyes open, and the doctor was bent over him, cleaning the burns on his chest. He couldn’t feel a thing. An unfamiliar hospital corpsman stood at his bedside, gathering the filthy bandages as the medic worked.

_Darkness_.

He struggled to open his eyes again. When he did so, the doctor was holding his bad hand in his own, manipulating his fingers this way and that. The nurse was gone.

The darkness lasted much longer this time.

A strange noise roused him from his slumber. The lights above him had been darkened, which cast the hospital ward into shadow. He looked down at himself to see that an open-backed hospital gown had been pulled over his arms and shoulders, and a blanket was pulled up to his chest. Sam struggled up to his elbows, dizzy and lightheaded. He could hear angry whispering just beyond the curtain that had been pulled around his bed; a stream of placating Cybertronian came in response.

He felt a sharp stab of anxiety as he looked around the room desperately. Was he dreaming? Was this real? In an instant, the gray-haired doctor stepped around the curtain and placed his hand firmly but gently on Sam’s chest, pushing him back onto the mattress.

The doctor’s eyes searched his face, before he said quietly, “It’s okay, Sam, you’re safe. Go back to sleep.”

Sam blinked slowly, already feeling himself slipping back under. Before the blackness claimed him once again, he murmured dejectedly, “You’re wrong.”

The medic’s eyes flicked to his face.

“I’m not safe. Not anymore.”

* * *

Sam woke slowly, rolling over on the narrow hospital bed as he did so. His first thought upon waking was that he had never felt this comfortable in his entire life. His limbs were heavy and warm, the pain in his chest was barely noticeable, and he felt clear-headed for the first time in days. He sighed in contentment before tugging the hospital blankets up to his ears, and burying his nose in the soft material. He laid there for a long time, in that indefinable space between awake and asleep, drifting comfortably. After a long while, he slowly became aware of an insistent discomfort.

He had to use the bathroom.

He blinked his eyes open, struggling to a sitting position. Suddenly, the gray-haired medic was beside him, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise.

“Jesus Christ, wear a bell!” He yelped.

The doctor’s stern expression wavered for a moment before he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sam considered the question seriously before replying.

“Good. Really good. Great, actually.” He admitted, “What time is it?”

“Twenty-three hundred.”

Sam stared at him blankly, “What?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

Sam’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief. “What? At _night_?”

The medic sighed heavily.

“You needed it.” He said, gruffly. “Can you eat?”

Sam gaped at the man, momentarily speechless, before he forced himself to reply.

“I have to use the bathroom.” He said.

The doctor nodded and gestured towards a door across the room. Sam pulled the blankets aside and stood up, clutching the open back of his hospital gown as he walked. He took his time in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and drinking from the tap, before he walked back into the ward. By the time he climbed onto the hospital bed, an unknown corpsman was there with a cafeteria tray that he placed on the overbed table. Sam fell on the meal like a starved man, barely tasting the food in his haste. The gray-haired medic watched silently as he ate, arranging medical supplies for his bandage change.

Sam finished his food with a satisfied sigh, unable to remember the last time he’d enjoyed a meal like that. The medic took his tray and set it aside, gesturing for Sam to take off the hospital gown. Sam did so, handing it to the hospital corpsman who had brought him his meal, and then braced himself for the dressing change. To his complete surprise, the procedure was almost painless. Even the bandages on his left side under his armpit were changed without discomfort.

Something on his face must have been telling, because the medic said waspishly, “If you’d come to me as soon as you’d arrived, you wouldn’t have had to suffer needlessly.”

Sam tilted his head at the man, confusedly.

“What do you mean? I came to the hospital ward for every change.”

“Yes, I am well aware.” The medic replied coolly, “And I expect to see you in the medical bay tomorrow morning for your next one. Don’t make me track you down, or I will be severely irritated.”

Sam frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to demand an explanation when the medic _shimmered_, as though interrupted by static, and then he disappeared.

“_What the fuck?” _He yelled, voice strangled in shock.

The corpsman glanced towards him, eyebrows raised in surprise. Sam looked at him wildly.

“What the fuck was that?” He demanded, aware that his voice was several octaves higher than normal.

The corpsman looked at him in confusion. “I was told you were aware of Autobot holotechnology.”

“What are you talking about? Do you mean like the elevator?”

The corpsman had a patient expression on his face, “Well yes, but also their holoforms.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? _Holoforms_?”

“The Autobot holoforms. They use them occasionally, when the situation requires it.”

It was true that he had seen a few holoforms—Barricade had used his when he’d knocked him off his bike, and he’d seen Arcee’s once before.

“Are you saying that he wasn’t real?” Sam demanded incredulously.

The medic was frowning at him, “That was a holoform, yes, but Ratchet is quite real.”

Sam stared at the corpsman in disbelief for a long moment before his eyes fluttered shut.

“Ratchet, you _asshole._” He groaned, eventually, for the second time in as many days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are so interested, here is a [map of the Diego Garcia base](https://www.navymwrdiegogarcia.com/modules/media/?do=thumb&id=ba0f5c69-b792-4b79-b986-5f85c0894e58). Also, here is the [map of the island](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diego_Garcia#/media/File:CIA-DG-BIOT.jpg) I use in my writing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you for all of the bookmarks, kudos, and comments. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of them. Thank-you especially for those of you who have commented, telling me what they like about my story. It's helpful to know what scenes/interactions people have enjoyed! 
> 
> You guys are motivating beyond words.

The medic jerked slightly at Sam’s words, his eyes widening in momentary surprise, before the corners of his lips twitched in barely concealed amusement. Apparently, the solider was not used to someone unabashedly disrespecting a senior officer in front of him.

“Don’t let the brass hear you talk like that,” He warned, before he learned in and whispered conspiratorially, “We only ever _think_ those things. We never say them out loud.”

Sam shook his head, barely hearing the words. His thoughts were focused inwards as he struggled to recall everything that he had said to the medic. He felt a building sense of horrified embarrassment as he realized that it was _Ratchet_ to whom he had admitted having nightmares and flashbacks. It was _Ratchet_ who had dressed him in a hospital gown and tucked him into bed. It was _Ratchet_ who he had told to wear a goddamn bell.

He groaned again as he scrubbed his hands over his face.

The corpsman patted his shoulder good-naturedly, before gathering his supplies and heading to the front of the ward. Sam sat there for a moment longer, gearing himself up, and then he slid off the bed and started after him. He was halfway down the ward before he realized, in surprise, that he wasn’t angry with Ratchet. The realization pulled him up short—why wasn’t he mad? He should be furious at the medic’s deception. Almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind, however, Sam knew the answer: Ratchet _hadn’t_ deceived him. He had a shit bedside manner and no concept of personal boundaries, but his intentions had been honest.

Sam mulled over this realization as he left the hospital ward. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the medic’s manner had been compassionate, at least compared to Ratchet-grade normal. Sam grimaced. He was still going to have a word with the medic about his propensity to sedate first and lecture later—he may be a ward of Cybertron, but he was still a fully cognizant, autonomous adult.

He glanced up and down the corridor, trying to decide what to do next. It was midnight, or thereabouts, and he had no desire to sit in his room until morning. He wasn’t hungry either, not that the mess hall would likely be open at this hour. He glanced at the signage posted on the wall; one placard pointed to _Officer’s Quarters_ while another placard labeled _Lounge_ pointed in the opposite direction. Pain-free, well rested, and satiated for the first time in a week, Sam felt the first stirrings of genuine curiosity. Decision made, Sam started towards the end of the quad that he had not yet explored.

He walked slowly, glancing inquisitively at the rooms that he passed. Many of them had glass facades that provided an unobstructed view inside, although they were all dark and quiet. He made a mental note when he passed the commissary to return in the morning to buy a razor. When he arrived at the lounge, Sam pressed his identification badge into the keycard reader and stepped inside.

The room was large, airy, and neat as a pin. There was abundant seating arranged in clusters around the space, not unlike the officer’s lounge aboard the Theodore Roosevelt. There was a kitchenette on the far wall, with a trestle table and bench chairs, and three flat screen televisions were bolted to the walls at even increments. Sam spied a row of vending machines at the back of the room, and he set off towards them. As he walked, he passed people sitting in pairs and small groups, talking and laughing with one another. When he got to the vending machines, he noticed that they had an electronic payment terminal. Glancing at the selection for a moment, he swiped his identification badge and bent to retrieve a bottle of water from the receptacle.

As he cracked open the bottle and took a long drink, a solider sidled up and stared considerately at the vending machine beside him. After a moment, he pressed his selection and swiped his card. As he retrieved his purchase, the man glanced at Sam.

“Hey.” He greeted.

“Hey.” Sam replied, taking another drink of water.

The man stared at him for a moment, a puzzled expression on his face, before his eyes widened in realization.

“Are you the—are you Mr. Witwicky?” He asked in surprise.

Sam grimaced.

“It’s just Sam, and yes. I am.”

Judging by the dubious look on his face, the stranger had no intention of calling him that.

“It’s nice to meet you. Uh, welcome to Diego Garcia.” He said, awkwardly.

Sam tilted his head, glancing at the man’s nametape.

“Nice to meet you too Mr. Nelson.” He said. Sam finished the last of his water and, nodding good-bye, walked to the nearest recycling bin and dropped the bottle inside. He was suddenly painfully aware of the surreptitious glances that were flitting his way, and so he hastily made his way out of the lounge and continued walking.

A short while later, Sam found himself stepping into the bridge. As he walked, he was surprised to notice the number of people who were coming and going, despite the late hour. Some were in military dress, while others wore professional-looking office attire. Unlike Sam, however, they all looked purposeful—as though they had something to do or somewhere to be. 

The realization made him grimace. In his last year of high school, there had been a career fair for all of the graduating seniors. When the eager-faced recruiters had asked him, ‘_What do you want to do when you finish college?’_ Sam had shrugged at them. He was a good student—he earned a 4.0 grade point average in high school and an SAT score that opened doors to some of the best universities in the country—but what did he want to do? He had no idea. His favorite subjects in high school were algebra and geography, a combination that did not readily lend itself to an obvious career path. As much as he liked algebra (he found balancing equations to be strangely soothing), he couldn’t see himself becoming a mathematician or an engineer. And geography? What did geographers even _do_?

Sam might not know what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew what he _didn’t_ want to do—and that was join the military. His lips quirked in maudlin irony—how had that worked out for him? He might not be a soldier, but for better or for worse, he was a part of NEST now.

Sam had walked another dozen steps before he realized that the thought didn’t make him angry. The insight made him stop in his tracks, as he turned it over in his mind, examining it. He was twisted up with anxiety and grief, even a semi-permanent sense of mortal dread, but he wasn’t angry. Well, he was _angry_, true, but not because he was here. He was angry at Megatron, and the shitty hand that life had dealt him, and the way people were treating him like he was made of glass—but he wasn’t angry to be at NEST.

He snorted softly, surprised by his moment of clarity. 

He walked for a while longer, lost in his thoughts. Eventually he found himself wandering through the South Quad, which looked like it could have belonged to any office building in America. White walls and beige carpet stretched in front of him; it was dark and quiet. He turned another corner and saw a door slightly ajar about halfway down the hall. Curious, Sam pushed it open and fumbled for the switch. Florescent light flooded the small mailroom, which had rows of mail slots on one side and an antiquated printer/fax machine on the other. The incongruous nature of an outdated piece of office equipment in the most technologically advanced military base on Earth actually made him laugh aloud. Shutting off the light once again, Sam pulled the door mostly shut behind him and continued on.

He rounded another corner and found himself standing in a long hallway, with office doors spaced in even intervals on both side of the corridor. Unexpectedly, one office door was open, spilling bright light into the dark hall. He walked down the hall slowly, curiously glancing inside the office as he passed. To his surprise, he recognized Dave sitting at an L-shaped desk, with a stack of papers in front of him and an intent expression on his face. A man was standing in front of the desk, his back to Sam, as he bent over a paper that Dave was handing him. The man hummed considerately, and then signed along the bottom of the page. Dave put the paper aside, and pulled another from the stack in front of him.

Dave glanced up as he passed the paper to his companion, his eyes widening in surprise as he noticed Sam.

“Sam!” He greeted, “What are you doing over here at this time of night?”

Sam stepped into the doorway, loosely crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned on the doorframe.

“I just woke up, if you can believe it. Thought I’d go on a foot tour.” Sam glanced around the tastefully decorated room, taking in the diplomas on the wall and the Green Bay Packers pennon on the bookshelf. He crooked a smile at the agent.

“Packers, Dave, really?”

The agent sat back in his chair, grinning at him from across the desk, “What can I say? I bleed green.”

Sam shook his head in exasperation, “I think we just became mortal enemies.”

“49ers?” Dave guessed.

Sam’s grin widened, “Naturally. Loyalty to the 49ers comes with a California birth certificate.”

The man standing in front of Dave’s desk had turned around to watch their exchange. Sam recognized him from the hallway that morning, and he barely restrained a wince. Rather than disapproval or irritation, however, there was a warm, genuine smile on the man’s face, as though he were happy to see him. As though he were _relieved_ to see him.

The memory of his outburst caused his grin to fade, and he started, “Listen Dave, about this morning—“

“Don’t worry about it, Sam. I get it.”

“I’m not usually such an irritable asshole, especially to someone who’s done me a favor.” He apologized.

Dave waved him off, understandingly.

“It’s fine. It happens to the best of us.”

Sam nodded his thanks, glancing at the clock behind Dave’s desk to see it was almost one o’clock in the morning. He frowned a little, looking back at the agent, “What are you still doing here?”

Dave gestured to the papers on his desk, “Just finishing up. It’s been a hectic few days.”

Sam’s frown deepened, “Optimus is working you too hard.”

Dave’s eyes flicked to Orion and then back to Sam, and he opened his mouth to reply.

“I agree with you, Sam.” Orion cut him off, “Let’s finish up tomorrow Dave. Go get some sleep.”

The agent looked between Orion and the stack of papers still on his desk, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, sure. I could use a break.” He replied.

Orion turned to look at Sam, “Where are you headed?”

Sam blinked at the older man in surprise, “Nowhere in particular.”

“I’ll walk with you.” He replied with a smile, and then turned to look at Dave over his shoulder, “Good work today. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sam stepped back to allow Orion to cross into the hallway. The older man gestured for him to continue, so he started walking. They walked together in companionable silence through the South Quad, passing by a large room filled with cubicles. Sam glanced inside curiously as they passed, trying to work out the purpose of the space.

“Logistics.” Orion told him, as though reading his mind, “It’s used during activations when there are a lot of moving parts that need coordination.”

“Activations?” Sam asked curiously. He had heard the word used before.

“NEST activations,” Orion explained patiently, “When a Decepticon signature has been detected, for example, or when a NEST team is deployed.”

Sam quirked his head thoughtfully, “I guess I never thought about all the behind-the-scenes stuff that goes on, but that makes sense. What do they do?”

“Anything and everything required to coordinate a mission. They approve the movement of troops and resources, work with local authorities to evacuate civilians prior to engagement, coordinate search and rescue, communicate situational updates to the necessary parties—they have many responsibilities.”

Sam was surprised to find himself listening in rapt attention.

“That sounds interesting. Intense, but interesting.”

The wrinkles around Orion’s eyes deepened as he smiled, “Definitely intense.”

They had arrived at the South Quad entrance to the bridge, and Orion pulled open the door for him. Sam walked in silence, his thoughts caught up with what Orion had just told him. He had never thought about the logistics, coordination, and communication required for an Autobot deployment. Every time Sam had been in the field with the Autobots, it had felt like it was just them against the Decepticons. It gave him a funny turn to realize that the Autobots would have been communicating with NEST the entire time.

After a few moments of Sam’s introspective quiet, Orion glanced at him.

“You seem distracted,” He said casually, “Something on your mind?”

Sam looked at the man askance, expecting to see an expression of polite attention on his face—the sort of look you’d give someone who had just asked you about the weather. Instead, Orion’s features were open and honest, and he seemed genuinely interested in Sam’s response.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, “You could say that.”

Orion was silent for a moment before he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sam turned and looked at the man—really _looked_ at him. His posture was relaxed and welcoming. There was something about him that Sam couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he had the strangest feeling that Orion cared. That he could be trusted.

Sam felt himself shrug, not answering Orion’s question directly.

“I’m working through some stuff.” He said at last, wincing as he recalled Ratchet’s reaction to those words.

Orion seemed contemplative for a moment, and then he said, “How about this? If you want to talk, talk. If you don’t want to talk, don’t. But I’ll keep you company, all the same.”

Sam nodded slowly, surprised to find that he was moved by the offer. It took him a moment to puzzle out why he felt so appreciative, and then he realized: Orion wasn’t treating him like he needed gentle handling. He was just _there_, solid and sympathetic. They walked in silence for an interminable time, as Sam tried to marshal his whirling thoughts.

Eventually, he blurted, “I’m not angry.”

His assertion seemed to take the man by surprise, “Oh?”

Sam struggled to articulate the revelation he had had before he entered South Quad.

“I’m not angry. To be here, I mean.” He sighed, “I was. When I first found out, I was fucking pissed. I think I might have actually punched Optimus in the face, if he had had one—even though that fight would have been over before it began.”

A look of surprised amusement flashed across Orion’s face, but he said nothing.

“Not now, though. I’ve had a lot of time to think.” Sam paused, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, “So, no more anger. All that’s left is grief—and fear.”

Orion looked at him, patient and supportive, encouraging him to continue.

“I’m trying to work my way through it, but it’s harder than I thought. It wasn’t like this after Mission City. Not even close.”

Orion’s face became carefully composed, and he asked neutrally, “Should you see someone? To help you work through it?”

Sam’s eyes snapped to Orion’s face, reflexively searching for condescension or disdain, but he could see nothing to suggest that the older man was judging him. His jaw tightened, and Sam resisted the knee-jerk reaction to snap in reply. Instead, he forced himself to consider the question seriously. He knew that this wasn’t run-of-the-mill anxiety; he was almost certain that he had PTSD. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the unpredictable emotional outbursts, it all fit. He also knew that Dr. Anderson had probably been right when she said that it wasn’t going to go away on its own.

Eventually he murmured, “Probably.” 

It was a difficult admission for him to make.

“I’ll take care of it.” Orion said, like a promise. At Sam’s confused expression, he clarified, “I know some people.”

They walked in silence for a long while, as Sam contemplated the potential ramifications of admitting his weakness to this man. Feeling overwhelmed and adrift, he huffed loudly in exasperation.

“I am so fucking out of my depth.”

Orion tilted his head quizzically, waiting for Sam to continue.

“I have, what, sixty years left? More if Ratchet has his way, and less if Megatron does. What am I supposed to do with myself now?”

Orion replied slowly, as though considering his words carefully.

“What would you like to do?”

Sam laughed self-deprecatingly, “I have no idea.” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings, “Not this. Nothing against NEST, but I can honestly say that I didn’t have any plans to spend the rest of my life surrounded by military types in the middle of the goddamned Indian Ocean.”

Sympathy softened Orion’s features, “No, I’m sure you didn’t.”

Suddenly realizing the sharpness of his words, Sam’s lips quirked in a smile, “Okay, so maybe I am still a little angry. But only a little.”

“You’re entitled to it.” Orion replied. It was a simple affirmation, but it made Sam feel strangely validated. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he turned to Orion.

“Are you a therapist?” He asked, baffled.

To his surprise, Orion threw back his head and laughed. It was a warm, jovial sound and Sam found himself huffing a laugh in return.

“No, thank goodness, but I am a good listener. It’s a job requirement.”

They walked in companionable silence for a long time. They were halfway through East Quad when Sam said, apropos of nothing, “I miss my parents already. It’s only been one day.”

The admission took him completely by surprise. Orion stopped abruptly, turning to look him full in the face.

“Of course you do. You’re their son.” He said, so plainly and with such conviction that Sam was blindsided by the way his throat closed up with emotion. He turned his face away, struggling to get himself under control. Orion stepped forward slowly, as though waiting to see whether Sam would protest or pull away, and then wrapped his arms around his shoulders in a loose hug. Sam tensed, embarrassed and uncertain, but Orion just stood there—steady and supportive. Sam didn’t move for an interminable time, neither hugging him back nor pulling away, merely accepting the comfort that Orion was offering. Eventually, Sam took a shuddering breath and raised the hem of his sleeve to wipe across his face, before pulling away. Orion squeezed his shoulders, and let him go.

“I’m sorry, that caught me by surprise.” He admitted, “My emotions have been all over the place lately.”

“It will help to talk to someone about it.” Orion assured him, “I speak from personal experience. It may surprise you to hear it, but I frequently turn to Ratchet for counsel.”

Sam huffed a laugh, “You’re right, I do find that surprising.”

“Although his abrasive manner may make it appear otherwise, Ratchet is deeply committed to the well-being of those under his care.”

Sam sighed, “Ratchet’s intentions were never the problem. It’s his relentless boundary-stomping and disregard for personal autonomy that’s the issue.”

Orion’s lips quirked up, “That is primarily a symptom of the cultural differences between our two peoples. As Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet has full authority to treat his patients however he sees fit. He can even relieve a commanding officer of duty, if Ratchet feels it’s in their best medical—” 

Orion abruptly stopped speaking, a frown flitting across his face. Surprised by the disapproval evident in the other man’s expression, Sam opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, when Orion turned to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry, Sam. A matter has arisen that requires my immediate attention. Thank-you for walking with me.” His tone was equal parts displeasure and regret. He paused a moment, tilting his head as though listening to something, before he continued, “I’ll explain when I see you in the medical bay this morning.”

Sam frowned in confusion, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, when Orion shimmered and then disappeared. He jerked backwards in surprise, staring in shocked disbelief at the empty hallway in front of him for a fraction of a second, before understanding dawned on him.

Blue eyes. Works with Dave. Seeks counsel from Ratchet.

_Optimus_.

Sam’s head fell back as he screwed his eyes shut. “You have got to be _kidding_ me.”

It took him a moment before he could open his eyes and face the reality of the empty hallway—and all that it signified. After he confirmed that he was, in fact, alone, Sam turned on his heel and stiffly continued down the corridor. As with Ratchet, he struggled to remember all of the interactions he had had with Optimus’ holoform. The Autobot leader had been supportive and comforting—neither judging Sam nor pressuring him to talk. Sam remembered his offer to help him find a therapist, his hug, his gentle validation. It had all been welcome, but he couldn’t ferret out the mech’s motivation for introducing himself as Orion Pax and not as his holoform. Surely, Optimus would have realized that Sam would not connect one with the other.

He stewed on the conundrum for the length of the hallway. The only answer that made sense was that Optimus had wanted to be supportive, and he felt there was a better chance that Sam would accept that support from Orion than from Optimus. Sam’s lips thinned in irritation. He had officially reached his limit for people making assumptions and taking action regarding his life without his knowledge or consent.

And he was going to make damn sure both Optimus and Ratchet knew it.

Sam’s angry brooding was interrupted by a loud _bang_, and he startled violently in surprise. The noise had come from somewhere in front of him. He walked forward cautiously, glancing around the next corner. He could see a large hangar door at the end of a short hallway, beyond which were long rows of workbenches and floor-to-ceiling shelving stuffed with pieces of machinery. What immediately caught his attention, however, was the black marks scored into the walls and ceiling of the corridor. He cautiously turned the corner, inching closer to the open door, as he strained to hear anything from inside the hangar.

There was another bang, less forceful than the last, and then an excited voice exclaimed, “Oh! How wonderful!”

Suddenly a mech bounced—and truly, there was no other word to describe the gait—across the entryway as he went to pass from one side of the room to the other. However, as soon as his optics settled on Sam, he stopped in mid-stride, pivoting on his pede to step into the corridor. Sam was completely taken aback; the Autobot was unlike any other that he had met to date. He was short, by Cybertronian standards, perhaps 10 feet or so. His helm was also entirely unique; rather than a faceplate that resembled that of the other Autobots, he had a solid faceplate framed by mandibles, above which two blue optics glowed brightly. A third, larger optic that resembled a telescoping lens was affixed on the left side of his helm. It relentlessly whirled, sharpening and widening as it focused on him.

Sam stepped back reflexively.

On either side of the mech’s head were illuminated fin-like panels that swirled with brilliant color. As he watched, sunshine yellow brightened and then melted into sea-foam green. The mech bobbed his head animatedly as he approached, walking on legs that were jointed like a velociraptor’s.

“Sam! It is Sam, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He said slowly, “I’m Sam.”

“Oh! How fortuitous!” He exclaimed, clasping his servos together, “I came to the hospital ward to see you earlier, but you were in stasis. Ratchet was displeased, of course, but I was most curious about you.”

The mech took three long-legged strides towards Sam, who jerked back in surprise.

“It’s nice to meet you,” The mech said, exuberantly, “My designation is Wheeljack.”

Sam recognized the name immediately.

“Wheeljack. You’re a scientist, right?”

The mech’s head bobbed delightedly as he shifted from pede to pede.

“Yes, precisely! Scientist, engineer, researcher, inventor—I _discover_. Yes, that’s it.” Wheeljack leaned forward, “Would you like to see?”

Without warning, Wheeljack turned and sprinted back to the hangar bay door, looking entreatingly over his shoulder at him. Sam, who previously had no intention of stepping foot into the engineer’s lab, found himself oddly endeared by Wheeljack’s enthusiastic manner. He hesitated for only a moment before he pushed his hands into his pockets and walked slowly forward. At his approach, the fins on either side of Wheeljack’s helm brightened into jovial gold, and he darted inside.

Walking through the hangar bay doors, Sam came to appreciate the full size of the engineer’s lab. There were workbenches, tables, and shelves, all piled with an assortment of terran and alien technology. Sam walked by a squat table with a disassembled toaster lying next to a complicated-looking piece of Autobot machinery. Perhaps most amusedly, Sam noticed that there were post-it notes all over the lab, which was practically a forest of yellow, pink, and blue paper foliage. Wheeljack stopped in front of a nearby worktable, his dorsal fins fluttering excitedly. Sam walked towards the mech, stopping a safe distance away. The engineer gestured towards the partially disassembled machinery on the table.

“These are the remnants of Jetfire’s trans-dimensional warp core. I am attempting to use his parts to develop a rudimentary ground-bridge, but preliminary trials have been… inconclusive.”

Sam felt a twist of sorrow at the sight of the Jetfire’s parts spread unceremoniously over the workbench. He worked his jaw for a moment, before he said, “He helped us get to Egypt. If it wasn’t for Jetfire, we’d all be dead.”

Wheeljack looked at him, clicking his mandibles urgently.

“Yes, precisely. I will ensure that his sacrifice was not in vain. If, through Jetfire’s parts, we can retrofit a working ground-bridge, it will greatly increase our ability to respond to Decepticon threats.”

“Ground-bridge?” Sam asked, confusedly.

“It is similar to Jetfire’s teleportation technology. It will allow us to move personnel and materials across great distances with little effort.”

Sam looked at the parts curiously, “How far?”

Wheeljack’s fins brightened to sunshine yellow.

“Oh, it depends on my success refining the technical parameters, but I am confident that it could eventually have a planet-wide range.” He chirped excitedly.

“Do you think you’ll be able to do it?”

Wheeljack’s optics brightened, “Oh, certainly. Whether it takes a stellar cycle or a vorn, however, I could not say.”

Sam smiled at the engineer, “That’s amazing, Wheeljack.”

Without warning, Wheeljack stepped close and poked him in the chest with a spindly finger.

“Do you think so?” He asked earnestly.

Sam flinched back violently, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. Before he could retreat, however, Wheeljack cocked his head and regarded him closely, his fins darkening to an emerald green. The engineer raised his servos, placatingly, and took a large step back.

“My apologies, Sam.” Wheeljack murmured, “I did not intend to trigger a stress response.”

“What?” He managed, his voice strangled.

“A stress response.” The engineer explained patiently, “As I have been informed, and have now observed for myself, the negative associations you have with my kind cause you to shy away from unexpected physical contact. I should not have approached you before we had established a tactile bond.”

“A tactile bond?” He asked, irritation sharpening his voice.

“Yes,” Wheeljack said enthusiastically, “Humans are an unusually tactile species, who frequently establish and strengthen bonds through touch—hugging a mate, kissing your progeny, shaking the hands of an acquaintance—it all encourages the production of oxytocin in the human brain, which fosters feelings of attachment. It was an error to have approached you, given the trauma you have experienced, before I had engendered such an attachment with you.”

The incongruity of Wheeljack’s eager tone with his oddly clinical assessment of human physiology left Sam feeling wrong-footed. He was pretty sure that he should be insulted, but the engineer’s endearing enthusiasm made it difficult to take offense at his words.

“Well, let’s just take things slowly and see where it goes.” He replied, after a moment.

Wheeljack’s fins brightened once again to sunshine yellow.

“An acceptable proposition!” He chirped.

Switching back to a safe subject, Sam motioned to Jetfire’s parts.

“How come he had teleportation technology, but none of you do?”

“Oh, that’s because he was an airframe.” Wheeljack replied, as though that explained everything. Sam looked at him blankly.

“An airframe?”

“Airframes are designed for flight, and often have trans-warp capabilities.”

Sam thought on that for a moment, “Like Starscream?”

Wheeljack busied himself with disassembling a complicated-looking piece of machinery.

“Starscream and most other seekers.” Wheeljack confirmed.

“Seekers?”

“Those airframes that match Starscream’s chassis-type, like his trine-mates Skywarp and Thundercracker.”

Sam’s lips thinned in a grimace, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting them.”

Wheeljack tilted his head, regarding the machinery in his hands closely.

“Oh no, they aren’t on Earth—thank goodness. Starscream is quite enough on his own.”

Sam huffed, “Yeah, you can say that again.”

“Starscream is quite enough on his own.”

Sam laughed aloud, eliciting a confused chirp from the engineer.

“It was a saying, not a request.” Sam tried to explain. Wheeljack tilted his head considerately, likely searching the Internet for clarification, when he nodded.

“Ah yes, I understand now. Thank-you Sam.”

Sam stayed with the engineer for hours, watching him as he worked. He was surprised to find that he was genuinely interested in Wheeljack’s research, and the engineer seemed to enjoy his company—especially when he required small hands to get into tight crevices on a piece of equipment. Sam was wrist-deep inside a twisted piece of Autobot machinery when Wheeljack chirped suddenly.

“Ratchet has requested your presence in the medical bay.” He said.

“Already? What time is it?”

“It is 0700 local time.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline in surprise; he hadn’t realized that he had been in the lab all night. He carefully extradited himself from the piece of machinery and wiped his hands on the towel that Wheeljack had procured for him. Upon realization that it was time to speak with Ratchet—and Optimus—Sam’s face clouded grimly. They were either going to listen to him and respect his requests, or they were going to have a hell of a fight. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Okay, I’ll head over. Thanks for keeping me company. It was really interesting.”

“I can take you, if you like.” Wheeljack offered, hesitantly.

Sam tilted his head considerately at the mech, “I wouldn’t want to pull you away from your research.”

Wheeljack’s fins brightened to robin’s egg blue in a moment, “It would be my pleasure!” He had barely finished speaking before he started to transform, and a moment later a black and white BMW G 310R stood in front of him. Sam recognized the motorcycle from his time spent with Mikaela, and the recollection was accompanied by a twist of pain. She would have loved it.

“I’ve never driven a motorcycle before.” Sam said after a moment, lifting his leg over the seat. It was a warning and an apology, both.

“No worries, Sam. I’ll drive.” Wheeljack chirped, and then his wheels spun against the concrete floor and they were off. Sam clutched reflexively at the handles and squeezed tight with his legs as they picked up speed. It was no time at all before they were zipping through the bridge. The long corridor was filled with people coming and going, but no one seemed perturbed by Wheeljack’s passage. At the sound of his engine, they moved over to the right side of the hall, and Wheeljack passed on the left.

Sam found himself grinning as he got used to balancing on the bike, leaning into the turns instinctively. By the time they passed through the West Quad door, which opened for them on its own, he totally understood Mikaela’s love for motorcycles. It was an exhilarating experience.

Wheeljack slowed to a stop outside of a large set of hangar doors. Sam climbed off the bike, giving the seat a friendly pat good-bye, before all traces of his earlier exuberance vanished. The medical bay was large, designed primarily for Autobot occupation, and it was entirely alien in appearance. Unfamiliar technology lined the walls of the hangar, and large berths were spaced down one wall in even increments. The floors and walls were covered with strange tubing, which snaked under berths and up the walls to spiderweb across the ceiling. Sam hesitated for a fraction of a second, unnerved by the _otherness_ of the space, and then he caught sight of Ratchet and Optimus, and his temper outpaced his anxiety.

“Alright,” He greeted with artificial cheer as he walked into the hangar, “Let’s have a conversation about boundaries.” 

Ratchet and Optimus turned in unison as he approached.

“Hello Sam.” Optimus greeted.

Ratchet crouched down and extended his hand towards him, palm up. He debated whether he wanted to have this conversation on the floor or on a berth, but he decided it would be wise to minimize the height disadvantage between the three of them. Gripping Ratchet’s digit tightly, he climbed onto the Autobot’s palm and was neatly transferred to the nearest bench.

“I am pleasantly surprised to see that your common sense has finally overcome your obstinacy,” Ratchet remarked dryly.

_Okay, here we go._

Sam narrowed his eyes at the mech, “You’ve made it perfectly clear that you'll treat me regardless of my wishes.”

Ratchet crossed his arms across his chassis, “Whether or not you are amenable to the fact is irrelevant. You are a ward of Cybertron, and that makes you my patient.”

“Ratchet, you’re being unreasonable.”

“I hope you can appreciate the hypocrisy of that statement.” 

Sam did not trust himself enough to reply in that moment, so he took a steadying breath before he tried again. “Ratchet, the hospital ward is better equipped to handle human patients.”

Ratchet leaned towards him, speaking sharply, “Dr. Lewis and her corpsman are excellent physicians, but they do not have a fraction of a percent of my diagnostic ability, experience, or medical knowledge.”

There was something about the medic’s tetchy tone that made Sam realize that Ratchet had been _offended_ by his avoidance. He sighed, switching tactics.

“Ratchet, if you’re going to be my physician, then you need to start respecting my bodily autonomy. No more treatment without obtaining informed consent and no more steamrolling my medical decisions.”

“I will treat you to the best of my medical judgement—not yours.”

Sam’s face flushed red in anger, “You will not! I’m not one of your soldiers, and I don't have to obey your orders. If you refuse to respect my autonomy, then you’ll have to drag me in here every time you want to treat me from now until I’m dead!”

“That can be arranged.” Ratchet warned.

“Ratchet.” Optimus rebuked, disapprovingly.

“This is not an unreasonable expectation, Ratchet.” Sam said firmly.

“And if your decisions go against my medical judgment?”

“Then I am sure that will be very difficult for you.”

“I am certain that a compromise can be reached that will satisfy you both.” Optimus cut-in diplomatically. Ratchet spat out an angry-sounding string of Cybertronian in reply, and Optimus winced minutely in response.

Suddenly understanding the tenuousness of his position, Sam tried desperately, “Listen. If there is a _very good reason_ for you to ignore my medical decisions—and I mean life-or-death good—then I agree you can veto my choice. I am trusting you to do so sparingly, and only in extreme cases.”

Ratchet regarded him intently, considering his words. To his shock, the medic nodded tersely.

“Very well. You will submit yourself to my medical care at my discretion. In return, I will adhere to the human convention of informed consent and respect your medical decisions insofar as they do not endanger your health or wellbeing.”

Sam turned the words over in his mind, trying to identify any potential issues in the medic’s statement. Finding none, he nodded.

“That means no more carte blanche sedation, Ratchet.” He warned, instantly bristling when the medic’s eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“You haven’t slept more than eight hours on your own in the last four days!” The medic snapped.

“Oh really? And what are the consequences of repeated sedation? Better or worse than lack of sleep?” Sam snapped back.

“Sam,” Ratchet ground out slowly, as though explaining something to an obstinate child, “You died of cardiac arrest four days ago. I am trying to ensure you don’t experience a repeat performance.”

“Oh for fuck sakes!” He exploded, his temper frayed, “I’m not going to have a heart attack!”

“Sam.” Optimus chided, and his eyes snapped up to the Autobot leader’s face.

“Not a word, _Orion._ You don’t have a pede to stand on right now.”

Ratchet pinned him with a disapproving glare, “The chances are slim but not insignificant. Patients resuscitated by—“

Sam’s temper had reached its breaking point. Recklessly disregarding the potential consequences of his words, he snapped, “The chances aren’t slim, they’re zero. I wasn’t resuscitated, I was _resurrected_.” As an afterthought, he added sarcastically, “Oh, and by the way, your demi-gods seem really nice.”

He had a brief moment to savor the identical looks of stunned disbelief on both of their faces, before Optimus recovered from his shock.

“Sam, what are you saying?” He asked, strained and urgent.

Sam felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair, cursing his lack of discretion. Unable to take back his words, he found himself forced to explain.

“I met them.” He said quietly, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly, “The Primes. They saved my life.”

“Before or after you recovered the Matrix of Leadership?” Optimus prompted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

“Before. They gave it to me.”

Optimus’ head jerked back slightly, his optics shuttering in disbelief. Ratchet’s expression was stricken, as though he were experiencing a reality-altering existential crisis. The medic looked at Optimus, warbling urgently in Cybertronian. Optimus’ optics never left Sam’s face.

“It is not our place to interfere.” He murmured back in English.

Sam looked from Optimus to Ratchet, and back again.

“What?” He asked, anxiety making his words sharp, “What aren’t you telling me?”

Optimus’ optics searched his face for a long moment, before he said, “I understand why you feel deceived by my earlier actions, Sam. My reluctance to reveal my identity was selfish. You have my word that I will not withhold information that concerns you again.”

Sam frowned at the strange non-sequitur, but Optimus was continuing before he could reply.

“There are two exceptions to that promise. First, I will not reveal information that is not mine to share. I must respect others’ right to their privacy. Second, I will wait until I have gathered all of the necessary information before I bring matters of potential importance to your attention.”

Sam shifted uncertainly, “Which one is this? One or two?”

“The second.” Optimus intoned, confirming Sam’s fear, “When I have more information, you have my word that you will be fully informed.”

Seeing no other recourse, Sam looked up at the Autobot leader.

“All right. I trust you.”

“You have my thanks, Sam. I will not abuse your trust.” Optimus replied solemnly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was heavily inspired by scenes from [[Giants of the Earth]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/255765), an exceptionally well written story. If you haven’t already read it, I encourage you to do so.

After their argument, and the subsequent admissions that it had revealed, Ratchet’s medical exam had been almost anti-climactic. The medic moved away to gather supplies, uncharacteristically pensive as he did so, and Sam pulled off his shirt as he sat down on the edge of the berth. Optimus stood a short distance away, solemn and watchful, but Sam was only peripherally aware of his presence. He was lost in thought, trying to come to terms with what Optimus had told him. 

Sam felt the righteous anger that had fueled his argument with Ratchet slowly bleeding away, leaving profound exhaustion in its wake. He mentally recoiled from the knowledge that there was yet another secret involving him, one so profound that it greatly unsettled the Autobot leader. Sam’s shoulders curled inward as he ran a hand over his face.

_How does this keep happening? _He wondered, despairingly.

Sam’s introspection was so all-consuming that he almost did not notice Ratchet’s return. The medic arranged his supplies on the berth, as a finger of one hand seamlessly transformed into an array of delicate instruments. Abruptly pulled out of his thoughts, his heart started to beat faster in his chest. He worked his jaw, willing himself to remain still as the medic approached. The moment the pincer-like appendage brushed the skin of his chest, however, Sam flinched back hard.

“Stop.”

It was barely a whisper, but Ratchet froze instantly. The medic’s optics flicked to his face, searchingly.

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Ratchet…” He started, before his voice trailed away, unsure what he intended to say. An explanation? An apology?

A plea?

The medic looked at him for a long moment, and then he stepped away and folded the instruments back into his servo. A fraction of a second later, his gray-haired holoform appeared beside Sam on the berth.

“Would this be easier?” Ratchet asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.

Without looking at the holoform or the medic, he nodded slowly. He could feel himself flushing to the roots of his hair, equal parts mortified and discomforted. Ratchet was quick and efficient in his work, the holoform and the Autobot moving in tandem to finish the dressing change. Eventually Ratchet told him to put his shirt on, and then the holoform disappeared as the medic disposed of the soiled bandages.

“I am pleased by the condition of your injuries. They are healing well and there are still no signs of infection. How do you feel?”

_Well, I haven’t thrown up or cried yet today_, he thought self-deprecatingly. Aloud, he replied, “I’m okay. Whatever you gave me last night helped.”

For a moment, Ratchet looked as though he were wrestling with the impulse to say something sarcastic, but he eventually said, “I am pleased to hear it. You should have another course; the half-life of the medication is approximately 12 hours. If you aren’t yet, you will be feeling your injuries again soon.”

Sam lifted his shoulder in a shrug.

“If that’s what you think, sure.”

Ratchet had a wary expression on his face, as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sam rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation.

“I’m not a masochist, Ratchet. If my options are pain and no pain, it’s not a difficult decision.”

“You’ll forgive me. I have two years’ experience that tells me you do not always make decisions in your own self-interests.”

Sam huffed an annoyed sound, but there was no heat in it. He stared resolutely at the floor as Ratchet approached; there was a familiar _snap-hiss_ and a brief stab of pain, and then it was over.

“You should wait to have a short rest around noon, and then go to sleep at your usual time this evening.”

Sam nodded, his eyes flicking to the medic’s face for the first time in half an hour.

“Come back if your pain becomes unmanageable. Otherwise, I will see you tonight.”

Optimus extended his hand towards the berth. Sam climbed to his feet, and stepped onto his palm obediently. Rather than deposit him on the floor, however, Optimus brought him close to his chest and hesitated a moment.

“Sam, would you like to accompany Bumblebee on his patrol?”

He blinked up at the Autobot leader, who seemed uncharacteristically tentative. It only took a moment for him to recognize Optimus’ offer for what it was: an olive branch.

“Patrol?” He asked, curiously.

“The scouts patrol the island three times every day, in pairs. Bumblebee and Sideswipe are preparing to embark. You may accompany them if you wish.”

The emotional exhaustion that had overcome him in the aftermath of his argument with Ratchet vanished in an instant, replaced by eager anticipation. It had been days since he had seen his guardian, and the opportunity to explore the island together was too tempting to decline. Something about his expression must have been telling, for Optimus’ optics softened as he lowered Sam to the floor.

“I’ve notified Bumblebee. He will be here shortly.”

“Get something to eat first.” Ratchet groused at him, from over his shoulder.

A faint smile pulled at the corner of Sam’s lips. If nothing else, the medic was consistent.

It was no time at all before Sam heard the throaty growl of Bumblebee’s engines, and the yellow Camaro pulled into the medical bay, transforming before he came to a stop. The scout jogged forward several steps, and crouched down in front of him.

“_Let’s go, you and me, keep it tight, don’t wait.” _Bee’s radio sang, and Sam smiled at him.

“Hey buddy. Up for a drive?”

Bee chirped in response, his optics bright.

“I need to grab something to eat first.” He apologized, glancing sidelong at Ratchet.

Bee stood up and stepped back, transforming back into his alt-mode without another word. He didn’t need to say anything—the scout’s enthusiasm was obvious by the way he revved his engine and rocked on his wheels. Sam walked up to the driver’s side door, running a hand affectionately over Bee’s roof, as he glanced at Optimus. The Autobot leader had retreated to stand beside Ratchet, watching the two of them with an air of quiet introspection. Sam felt compelled to say something, to reciprocate the olive branch that Optimus had extended to him. 

“Thank-you for walking with me earlier.” He murmured after an uncertain pause, echoing Optimus’ words back to him.

Without waiting for a reply, Sam ducked into Bee’s cab, the door closing behind him. He barely had time to settle into the driver’s seat before the scout was in motion, driving out of the medical bay and towards the bridge. He went first to the North Quad mess hall. Sam scrambled out quickly, ducking into the hall as Bee waited outside in his alt mode. He was surprised by the excited anticipation that spurred him—it had been a long time since he’d felt anything other than fear or anger or grief. Sam grabbed an assortment of packaged goods—cinnamon bun, fruit tray, croissant—hurrying to the cash registers with his selection. He barely waited to see the flash of approval from the terminal before he was off. He jogged back into the corridor moments later, climbing into Bee’s cab again with a grin.

Bee was off in a shot, driving through the quad at a quick clip. Sam was half-way through his cinnamon bun, mindful of crumbs and sticky fingers, when Bee pulled into the large receiving room. Sideswipe was waiting in his alt-mode by the lift, and the convertible flashed his high beams impatiently as Bee approached. The two Autobots accelerated until they were on the lift, side by side. Bumblebee’s radio brightened to life, and the scout started speaking.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, checking in.//_

Sideswipe’s exaggerated sigh burst forth from Bee’s radio.

_//Sideswipe checking in.// _The mech said, his tone bordering on annoyed.

_//Acknowledged. Your departure is approved. Good luck.//_ Sam recognized Ironhide’s commanding voice immediately. As soon as the weapon’s specialist finished speaking, the lift jerked beneath them and started to ascend.

“What’s this?” He asked, curiously. He had never heard the other Autobots through Bumblebee’s speakers before.

“It’s our general comms channel.” Bee explained, his voice cheery, “It is accessible by all Autobots within range. We use it for day-to-day communication—general chatter, discussion, it’s relatively informal.”

Sam smiled at the dashboard. He suspected that this was Bumblebee’s way of welcoming him into the fold, of including him as part of their group—equal and wanted. They finished ascending into the large hangar, both vehicles accelerating forward as soon as the lift stopped. The large doors at the end of the hangar opened as they approached, and the armed men standing sentry outside snapped off crisp salutes as they drove past.

“What’s its range?” He asked curiously, starting on his fruit tray.

“1000 kilometers or thereabouts, although it can vary based on topography and atmospheric conditions. In comparison, we can ping one another over far greater distances—sometimes thousands of kilometers apart—and Optimus can ping us from anywhere on the planet.”

“Ping?” He asked curiously.

“A private message sent to an individual’s comm channel.” Bee explained.

“Like a voicemail?”

Bee’s voice was amused, “More or less.”

They had reached the outskirts of the base, which quickly receded behind them as they picked up speed. Sam glanced at Bee’s dashboard, feeling a familiar thrill as the speedometer climbed steadily—40, 55, 60. Palm trees flashed by them for an interminable time before the vegetation fell away. They turned onto a narrow road that was bordered on both sides by white sand and turquoise water. The atoll was narrow here, less than 1000 feet from shore to shore. Sam sat up straighter, leaning towards the driver’s side window. Vegetation on this part of the atoll was sparse, mostly scrub brush that separated the road from the drift line. The early morning sun glittered off the water, beautiful and serene.

_//Preliminary scans complete, western-central all clear.//_ Sideswipe reported.

_//Continuing on to southern quadrant.// _Bumblebee informed immediately thereafter.

“Bee, this is so cool.” Sam said, delightedly.

_//Glad you think so, Sam.//_ Jolt’s amused voice cut over the channel.

Sam blinked in surprise, taken aback.

“They can hear me?”

There was a brief pause before Bumblebee replied, “I have left the comms open, but I can stop transmitting for you, if you prefer.”

Sam considered the offer for a moment, before he shrugged.

“Don’t share anything embarrassing.” He stipulated with a grin. He reached out to clasp the steering wheel, running his thumb affectionately over the leather.

They continued driving, and the terrain slowly changed around them. The atoll widened and vegetation became more established as they drove. Low, open shrubland was replaced by open-scrub, and then eventually by the dense foliage cover of mature palm trees. 

_//Preliminary scans complete, southern reef clear. Continuing to East Point.//_ Bee reported.

“How big is Diego Garcia?” He asked.

“The atoll is approximately 170 square kilometers in total. The continuous portion of the rim stretches 65 kilometers from one end to the other—it’s the largest, continuous dryland atoll in the world. Its width ranges from 2.5 kilometers around the base to less than a few hundred meters by Cust point.”

“Are there animals?” He asked, curiously.

“There are no large mammals on the atoll, but there is an assortment of rodents, birds, reptiles, and crustaceans.”

Sam leaned back against the seat, comfortable and content.

“How long does it take you guys to do a full patrol?”

_//It depends on whether we find anything worth investigating. On a quiet day, we can do the round-trip in less than two hours. Longer, if Sides is feeling prissy about it.// _Bumblebee said dryly, and Sam could tell by the modulation of the scout’s voice that he was on the comms channel. There was a burst of unflattering-sounding Cybertronian in response, and Sideswipe’s engine roared as the Corvette pulled in front of them, taking point.

Sam laughed aloud.

The pavement gave way to crushed gravel, and the road narrowed to a single worn path through the dense forest of palm trees. The foliage was so thick and shaded that Sam could no longer see the glittering turquoise of the ocean on either side of the road. Ahead of them, Sideswipe’s brake lights flared and the Corvette slowed to a stop. Bumblebee followed suit, his door popping open as soon as he came to rest. Curiously, Sam climbed out of the cab and stepped back as the two Autobots transformed into their bipedal modes.

“What’s up?” He asked. Here under the dense canopy of palm fronds, the sunlight was slanted and mellow, but the air was remarkably hot and humid. Sam felt sweat starting to bead against the back of his neck.

“Come see for yourself.” Bumblebee chirped good-naturedly, moving aside to reveal the cause of their delay. Sam stepped forward, blinking in surprise as he did so. In the middle of the narrow trail was the strangest looking creature he had seen in his life. It vaguely resembled a lobster, except it was far larger—about the size of a wastebasket. Its shell was a mottled red-orange, and it had ten jointed legs and two large pincer-like claws. The strange creature ambled slowly across the road, its legs moving in pairs.

Sam crouched a few feet away, glancing up at his guardian.

“What is it?”

“A coconut crab.” Sideswipe replied instead, irritation in his voice, “They’re all over the island.”

“It’s huge. I didn’t know crabs could get this big.”

“It’s the largest land-living arthropod in the world.” Bumblebee said, bending down to pluck the creature up with two fingers, transferring it off the road and into the forest.

“It’s a nuisance.” Sideswipe said impatiently, “And because they’re a protected species, Prime won’t let us exterminate them.”

Sam glanced at the silver mech disapprovingly, “Hey. It didn’t do anything to you.”

Sideswipe shrugged, “See if you feel the same way in an hour.”

As it turns out, it didn’t even take an hour. When they had stopped for the fifth time in twenty minutes to move another lumbering crustacean off the road, Sam directed his gaze towards the dashboard and said, “Alright, I see your point.”

Sideswipe chirped at him in smug acknowledgement, transforming back into his alt mode. Bumblebee drove ahead of the silver mech, resuming point.

They drove together in companionable silence as the dense forest thinned around them. It was only a short while before Sam could see the glint of water through the trees again, and then they were back in the bright sunshine of the open beach. The strip of land narrowed rapidly as they drove, until there was only a thin stretch of sand on each side of the road separating them from the water.

_//Cust Point is clear.// _Bumblebee reported.

Sam sat up straighter, looking out the driver’s side window. He could see the airstrip and the base across the bay beside him, and he realized they had almost come full-circle. It was only moments later that the road came to an end, tapering off into a large swath of white sand. Turquoise water surrounded the point on three sides, and scrubby little plants dotted the high-water mark along the beach.

Bumblebee rolled forward several meters, and then his driver’s side door clicked open. Sam climbed out of the cab, his feet sinking immediately into the soft sand. He bent down and pulled off his shoes and socks, and then rolled the hem of his jeans up several inches. He walked down the beach face slowly, staring out over the glittering expanse of ocean water. The sunshine was hot against his skin, and the smell of saltwater was fresh in the air.

Sam sat down slowly, suddenly painfully aware of where he was—and of why he was there. He wondered numbly where Mikaela was at that moment and what she was doing—the twist of grief he felt at the thought took his breath away.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, staring unthinkingly out at the water, before a shadow fell across him. Sam glanced up to see his guardian standing over him, blue optics shining concernedly. The scout crouched down, bracketing Sam’s body with his legs. Sam looked away from him, glancing back towards the water. Tentatively, Bee brought his hand to rest against Sam’s back; he flinched at the touch, but did not pull away. Seemingly encouraged, the scout ran a single digit down the length of his spine.

Sam shivered.

Bee chirped at him soothingly, running his finger along his spine again with just the faintest hint of pressure. It was amazing how gentle the scout could be, given his demonstrated capacity for violence. Bee shifted slightly on his pedes, and then feathered his fingers along Sam’s upper back and shoulders, rubbing softly. He stayed crouched like that for a long while, stroking and rubbing his fingers across Sam’s back. Eventually, the tension eased out of Sam’s body and he relaxed, leaning against the scout’s struts.

“Thanks buddy.” He murmured.

Before Bee could reply, Sideswipe laid on his horn, long and loud. Sam spasmed as though he’d been electrocuted, and he whipped around to glare at the Corvette.

“If you two are done, we have a patrol to finish.” Sideswipe huffed impatiently.

Bumblebee stood up, warbling animatedly at the other scout in irritation. Sam climbed to his feet after him, surprised to find that his knees were stiff. How long had he been sitting out here?

Together they walked up the beach face, Bumblebee transforming as soon as they reached the road. Sideswipe reversed as Sam climbed into Bee’s cab, pulling onto the road and heading back the way they came. Sam settled into the driver’s seat as the door closed shut behind him, and Bumblebee accelerated after the other scout.

_//Barton Point is all-clear. Returning to base.//_ Sideswipe reported, sounding huffy.

“Prissy is right.” Sam said pointedly, staring at the dash.

Sideswipe brake-checked hard in front of them, and Sam laughed at Bee’s affronted chirping.

He reached forward and opened Bee’s glovebox, pulling out the last of the food he had brought with him. The sunshine had had a reviving effect on his appetite, and he ate quickly. They were just passing East Point when Prime’s voice cut through the silence of the cab.

_//All Autobots assemble in the command center immediately.//_ He ordered. The moment he finished speaking, Bumblebee’s engine roared as the speedometer needle jumped to 60 miles per hour. Sam reached instinctively for the seat belt, pulling it around him in a single motion.

“What is it?” He asked, his voice sharper than he intended.

“I don’t know.” Bumblebee replied seriously, “It’s not an immediate threat, whatever it is, or else Prime would have activated the tacnet.”

The two scouts shot down the narrow path between the palm trees, kicking up a cloud of dust in their wake. Once they reached paved road again, their speed increased dramatically as the speedometer needle buried in the red. Normally Sam would have been ecstatic about the wild ride, but the tension in his guardian’s frame quashed his excitement completely. 

It was less than fifteen minutes before they were pulling into a dark room deep within the West Quad. Sam climbed out of the cab and stepped back, giving his guardian the space to transform. Not that he needed it, Sam reflected. The room they were in was huge.

The command center was built for simultaneous occupation by Autobots and humans. In the center of the room was an Autobot-sized table that contained several monitors and key pads intended for use by the large mechs. A complicated series of metal scaffolds and platforms were affixed to the walls of the room, at Autobot-height. The platforms were full of computer terminals and servers, at which sat dozens of technicians and operatives. The room was a noisy din of talking, typing, and movement.

Sam climbed the steps of the nearest scaffold, walking down the length of the room. Bumblebee and Sideswipe moved to stand around the large table, at the head of which stood Optimus Prime. All of the other Autobots were already assembled, including Arcee who stood off to one side next to Elita-One. Sam noticed Will and Dave halfway down the walkway, and he hurried to join them.

Optimus surveyed the room, before he nodded to Wheeljack. The engineer’s servos flew over the keypad on the desk, and a three-dimensional hologram appeared in the center of the room.

The command center went quiet.

The hologram was immediately recognizable as a scaled-out version of their solar system, and it rotated slowly over the desk. 

“Approximately twenty-five minutes ago, we received confirmation of two Vanguard-class starships entering the solar system.” Optimus began. The hologram zoomed in near Pluto, where one red dot blinked menacingly. The image panned rapidly, and a second dot blinked at them from further away.

“The nearest of the two ships has just entered the heliosphere. The second is not far behind, currently making its way through interstellar space on this side of the Oort cloud. Given their current trajectory, we believe that their destination is Earth.”

Lennox leaned forward, gripping the metal railing of the scaffold.

“Do we know if they’re hostiles or friendlies?”

Prime turned to look at him, “We do not. We had to limit our sensor capabilities significantly in order to increase its range. We will not know more until the first ship passes the Kuiper belt in approximately six hours. In the interim, we must prepare for the possibility that these ships contain a Decepticon invasion force.”

Sam shifted nervously, glancing at Lennox who had a grimly determined look on his face.

“In response, I am ordering NEST to full activation.” Optimus continued, and the room erupted into a flurry of organized chaos. Technicians started speaking animatedly into headsets, as they hurried to follow Prime’s command. Soldiers walked briskly up and down the walkways, carrying messages and orders from station to station.

Prime turned to look at Lennox, who seemingly anticipated the Autobot leader’s next words.

“What flight activation would you like?” He asked preemptively.

“Scramble the F-22s. I want a full pass of our airspace every quarter hour. Also notify the International Civil Aviation Organization that our airspace is closed to all foreign traffic, effective immediately.”

“Got it.” Lennox nodded, heading to the nearest command terminal.

Optimus turned to Dave next, “I have briefed the United Nations on the unfolding situation. Please work with Wheeljack to ensure they have the necessary details to inform their own protective planning.”

Dave nodded sharply, “Will do. Any restrictions on the information I can provide?”

Optimus tilted his head considerately, “Use your best judgment. Provide them with whatever they require to make good preparedness decisions, but nothing that would cause an unnecessary panic.”

Dave nodded, starting down the stairs, “I’ll be at logistics.”

Now alone, Sam gripped the metal railing of the scaffold until his knuckles turned white. It had been, what, _five days_ since they’d last faced certain annihilation from the Decepticons?

He became aware that Optimus was talking once again, this time to his soldiers.

“Sideswipe, Jolt, Ironhide, I want you topside at the airfield. If this is an attack by the Decepticons, you can be certain that Starscream or Megatron will harry our air forces in advance. Chromia, Elita-1, Mudflap, and Skids, begin continuous patrolling of the downtown facilities.”

Arcee pushed off the wall, stepping towards Optimus with a protesting squeal of Cybertronian. The large mech looked down at her, shaking his head minutely.

“No, Arcee. Unless we engage with enemy forces, you are to remain here. Ratchet has not cleared you for return to active duty.”

The lithe bot looked like she wanted to argue, but a serious and quelling look from Optimus had her ducking her head in acquiescence.

Bumblebee turned away from the conference table, and walked towards him. When the Autobot stopped up to the scaffold, the two were of a similar height.

“The fun never stops.” Sam commented wryly.

_“The city never sleeps at night.” _Bumblebee agreed.

Sam worried his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, “What happens if—“

“Sam.” Optimus interrupted him gently from his position at the table, “It does no good to squander our energies on baseless speculation.”

He shifted uncertainly. Optimus was right, he knew, but how could he _not_?

“We will know more in six hours.” Optimus continued, “Until then, we must be patient.”

It was the longest six hours of Sam’s life.

By the time the red dot on the hologram had approached the dashed line that signified the outer edge of their enhanced sensor range, Lennox and Dave had re-joined him on the scaffold. Sideswipe, Jolt, and Ironhide had also temporarily returned, standing in a semi-circle around the desk. Everyone in the room, human and Autobot alike, was closely watching the hologram in grim anticipation.

When the blinking red dot crossed the dashed line on the hologram, Optimus nodded to Wheeljack. The engineer’s servos flew across the machinery in front of him, and then he nodded back at the Autobot leader.

“Unidentified vessel, this is Optimus Prime. You are approaching a planet that is under Autobot protection. Identify yourself and state your purpose.” 

There was a long, tense silence.

“Unidentified vessel—“ Prime started again, but a loud crackling interrupted him.

“We are receiving you loud and clear, Prime.” A calm, serious voice replied through the speakers, “This is the _Trion_. We are transmitting visual now.”

The reaction was instantaneous. All of the assembled Autobots started talking animatedly at once, their voices pitched high in excitement and surprise.

“_Prowl?”_ Ironhide demanded in disbelief, “Is that you?”

“—by Primus, it can’t be—“

“—the _Trion_? I can’t believe she made it—“

“—it’s been _megacycles_—“

Optimus raised a restraining hand, though his expression was quietly eager. The sudden riot of excited chatter petered off, and Optimus nodded to Wheeljack. The engineer bobbed his head and tapped away at the keypad in front of him. After a moment, the hologram flicked, replaced by the visage of a serious looking black-and-white mechanoid.

“Prime.” The mech greeted, inclining his head respectfully, “We received your beacon, and came as soon as we could.”

“Prowl, my old friend. Your arrival is most welcome.”

Sideswipe stepped forward abruptly, tension radiating from his entire frame. He locked optics with the hologram, and demanded something urgently in clipped Cybertronian.

Prowl turned slightly to survey him, but before the mech could respond there was an answering string of excited Cybertronian from behind him. Sideswipe sagged like his strings had been cut, optics bright with barely restrained emotion. Jolt stepped forward, ducking down to murmur at Sideswipe with an animated smile on his face.

Prowl continued as though he hadn’t just been interrupted, “In addition to Sunstreaker, I also have Ultra Magnus, Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, Bluestreak, and Ripcord.”

Sam noticed his guardian’s optics brighten at the words, and Sam smiled at him encouragingly. He recognized Cliffjumper’s name from the stories Bumblebee had told him about his time at the Simfur Temple.

“That is welcome news indeed, Prowl.” Optimus replied, “There is a sizable Decepticon presence on this planet, including Megatron and Starscream. We have recently engaged them in combat, and welcome your reinforcements.”

“Of course, Prime.” Prowl acknowledged with another tilt of his head, “We can be planet-side in one cycle. You should know, however, that we were recently ambushed by Thundercracker and Skywarp. If we received your beacon, then it only stands to reason that they are not far behind.” 

Optimus’ faceplates turned down in a frown, “That is unfortunate. A united command trine will give Megatron a significant tactical advantage, and will pose a great threat to the peoples of this planet.” He paused a moment and tapped the keypad in front of him. A smaller version of the solar system hologram appeared, two dots blinking in tandem, “Prowl, there is another ship coming in behind you. Do you know its designation?”

“It’s the _Ark_.” Prowl replied, and Optimus jerked back slightly in surprise.

“The _Ark_?” He repeated, disbelieving and hopeful in equal measures. Prowl nodded once in confirmation.

“Yes. She was badly damaged, hence our delay, but she’s operational.”

“Who?” Prime asked, voice intense.

“Kup, Perceptor, and Mirage.”

Optimus’ optics shuttered briefly as he murmured, “Thank Primus.”

Sam’s mind reeled with this new information. By his count, the number of Autobots on Earth was about to double, and there were two starships to add to the equation. He felt almost giddy with relief.

Prime straightened, composed once again.

“Wheeljack is sending you coordinates to Diego Garcia. Be cautious on your approach; Soundwave is still in orbit around the planet, and Megatron and Starscream will surely be aware of your arrival.”

Prowl nodded shortly, “Of course. Prowl out.”

The image flickered for a moment, and then disappeared.

Optimus lifted his helm, surveying the room slowly.

“This is momentous news,” He began, stately and dignified, “The arrival of our friends and comrades may well represent a turning point for this conflict. However, we must remain vigilant. The _Trion _and the _Ark_ are high-priority targets, and they will be vulnerable to attack until they land at Diego Garcia.”

He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on Autobots and humans alike.

“You have your orders. We will receive the _Trion _at the eastern airfield; be prepared for landfall at oh-five-hundred.”

Optimus nodded to them all, stepping away from the table to speak with Ratchet and Ironhide. Sam turned to look at Dave and Will, who wore similar expressions of surprised relief on their faces.

“So that’s not how I thought things were going to go.” Sam said, conversationally, as he crossed his arms loosely over his chest.

Dave huffed a laugh, “No, definitely not.” He agreed before he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I am going to be up all night trying to calm down pissy heads-of-state.”

Sam laughed nudging the man with his elbow, “Better than the alternative, I suppose.” 

Lennox smirked at them, pushing away from the railing.

“I’m going to go prep the Lancers. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Sam raised two fingers in a crooked salute.

“Good luck, Captain.”

Sam looked away from Will’s retreating form to see that Bumblebee had stepped close. He smiled affectionately at the mech, leaning against the railing towards him.

“So Cliffjumper,” Sam said, “You must be excited.”

Bumblebee chirped expressively in agreement.

“I feel like I already know him.” Sam admitted, “Think he’ll be pissed you told me about his frag-up at Iacon?”

There was a burst of laughter-like static from the scout.

“I would consider it a kindness if you didn’t mention that.”

“Oh-ho. Do you know what that sounds like, Bee? It sounds like _leverage_.” Sam replied, mischievously. The scout gave an affronted squeal, reaching out a digit to push against Sam’s chest. He stumbled back a step, laughing delightedly as he swatted at the offending finger.

“What about the rest of them? Do you know them?”

Bee nodded enthusiastically.

“Many of them. I’ve worked most closely with Cliff, Roddy, and Sunny. Sunny, designation Sunstreaker, is Sideswipe’s twin brother.” He said, and Sam suddenly understood the silver mech’s earlier behavior.

“I’ve served aboard the _Ark_ with Mirage, Bluestreak, and Perceptor,” Bumblebee continued, “Whereas I only know Kup, Ultra Magnus, and Ripcord in passing. Regardless of my personal attachments to them, Prowl, Kup, and Ultra Magnus are Prime’s secondary commanders. We are incredibly fortunate to have them join us.”

Sam smiled at his guardian in genuine affection, “I’m glad your friends are here, Bee. Really glad.”

The scout whistled at him, optics bright. Before he could reply, however, Ratchet interrupted them.

“It’s nineteen-hundred, Sam.” The medic said, as though the statement were self-explanatory. At Sam’s puzzled expression, the medic vented air dramatically, “It is time for your dressing change, food, and rest. In that order.”

Sam shook his head in exasperation, “There’s no way I’m going to be able to fall asleep now, Ratchet.”

“Nevertheless, needs will out.” The medic replied, dryly.

Sam stared at him for a moment before he shrugged.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

The medic huffed slightly, as though taken aback, and rapidly transformed into his alt-mode. Sam jogged down the metal stairs, and approached the LAFD Search and Rescue Hummer. Ratchet popped his door and he gingerly climbed inside of the cab, wincing in discomfort. The door shut behind him, and Ratchet pulled out of the command center.

“Are your injuries bothering you?” The medic asked.

Sam shrugged, glancing around the interior curiously. He had never driven in Ratchet’s alt mode before.

“Starting to.” He admitted.

“Understandable, given the time since you were last medicated.” Ratchet said. It was only the space of several moments before he pulled into the medical bay. Sam yelped in surprise as the medic unexpectedly transformed around him.

“Ratchet!” He barked, anxiety making his voice sharp, “A little warning next time!”

Ratchet huffed impatiently as he set Sam down on a nearby berth, on which a familiar assortment of medical supplies was already waiting. Sam barely had his feet underneath him before the silver-haired holoform flickered to life beside him.

“Consider this my official warning: I’m an Autobot. I transform.” The medic replied sardonically.

Sam pulled his shirt over his head, annoyed.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“I do.” Ratchet agreed, serenely. 

Sam huffed a laugh, an exasperated smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Smartass.” He said, without heat.

The holoform crouched beside him.

“I would prefer to change your bandages after I’ve administered an analgesic.” He said, and Sam realized belatedly that he was asking for permission. Sam felt warm appreciation blossom in his chest.

“Sure.” He agreed.

The holoform nodded, and Ratchet approached in his bi-pedal form. Sam did not look at the medic, resolutely turning his head to the side and waiting with closed eyes. He was aware that his behavior was transparently infantile, but he couldn’t look at Ratchet’s instruments if he wanted to maintain his composure. A moment later, Sam felt the familiar stab of pain and then heard Ratchet’s instruments tucking back into his servo.

“How much longer will I need to do this?” He asked.

Ratchet and the holoform shrugged in unison.

“Your injuries are healing well.” The medic said as the holoform started to pull at the adhesive tape on Sam’s chest, “The bandages will only be necessary for a few more days. After that, your treatment will consistent primarily of pain management and rest.”

Sam nodded.

“Good news about the others.” He said, changing topics.

Ratchet’s optics shuttered, “It is.”

“You know them, I assume?”

Ratchet’s gaze flickered to his face for a fraction of a second.

“I do.” The medic said, his voice unusually guarded.

Not wanting to pry, Sam fell silent. Ratchet was quiet for the better part of a minute before he said, gruffly, “I knew Kup and Ripcord from before the Great War. Kup is older than rust, the tough old bastard, and Ripcord was a priest at the Temple Simfur.”

Sam blinked at Ratchet’s words, surprised the medic was confiding in him.

“A priest?”

A grimace pulled at Ratchet’s faceplates, “Yes. As Prime has explained, the religion of Primus was once widespread amongst our people. Ripcord was one of the temple leaders that oversaw the Allspark.”

Sam winced. That was going to be an awkward introduction.

“What about the others? What are they like?”

“They’re good soldiers.” Ratchet said gruffly, “Even the youngsters. Primus only knows how Prowl and Ultra Magnus managed to wrangle the three of them for megacycles.”

Sam tilted his head at the mech.

“Youngsters?”

Ratchet cycled air in a huff, “Hot Rod, Cliffjumper, and Sunstreaker. They are highly talented, but they’re young and like most younglings, they can be difficult to handle.”

The medic’s words were pointed, and Sam glanced up at him with a sardonic smile.

_Message received_, He thought wryly.

The holoform gestured for him to raise his left arm, and he started on the bandages on his side. They sat in (surprisingly companionable) silence for the remainder of the dressing change, and eventually the holoform handed him his shirt. Sam pulled it on quickly, standing as he did so.

“I’m going to take you to the mess.” Ratchet announced, “After you’ve eaten, you’re to go back to your room and rest.”

Sam shifted on his feet. He strongly suspected that sleep was out of the question, but he didn’t want to ruin the tentative comradery that had formed between them by arguing with the medic.

Ratchet huffed at him.

“If you can’t sleep, at least rest quietly. I’ll give you one night before I resort to benzodiazepines.”

He recognized the compromise for what it was, and he nodded in agreement.

“If I fall asleep, will someone wake me? Before they arrive, I mean.”

Ratchet looked at him as though he had just said something remarkably dense.

“Of course. You are our ward. Prime will want you present when he receives them.”

Sam nodded slowly, climbing onto Ratchet’s proffered palm. This time he only grumbled at the medic when he transformed around him without warning.

* * *

“Sam. Hey, Sam.”

He groaned disapprovingly at the noise, rolling over.

There was a huff of laughter in response, “Come on, time to get up.”

Sam raised his head, blinking blearily to find Dave standing at his bedside. He looked around his bedroom in momentary disorientation—the lights were on and he was lying on the bed fully clothed—before his memories caught up with him. He had returned to his room after he had eaten and, apparently, he had managed to fall asleep.

“Sorry,” He grunted as he pushed into a sitting position, “I’m awake.”

“It’s okay. Please accept my apologies for coming in uninvited. I tried the door chime, but there was no answer.”

“I didn’t hear a thing.” He admitted, “I was out cold.”

“I noticed.” Dave replied amusedly, “Come on, get ready. We have to go.”

Sam climbed out of bed, “Do I have time for a shower?”

“A quick one.” Dave agreed as he walked into the living room. Sam nodded, pulling a change of clothes out of his closet and walking quickly to the bathroom. He was showered, dressed, and out of his apartment in less than ten minutes. He pulled the lanyard over his head as he walked, slipping his cellphone into his pocket.

“What’s the news?” He asked.

“They’re about an hour out. So far, there’s no sign of a Decepticon attack, but things are tense top-side.” 

Sam nodded grimly, “I bet.”

They walked through the North Quad door, and Sam smiled at the sight of Bumblebee in his alt form waiting on the bridge.

“Hey buddy.” He greeted. The scout chirped at him in response, opening both of his doors simultaneously. Sam climbed into driver’s seat, and Dave slid into the passenger’s seat beside him. Bee was in motion the moment his ass hit the seat.

_//Preliminary scans complete. South-central clear.// _Mudflap’s voice carried through the radio.

_//We ain’t seen shit all night.// _Skids confirmed a moment later.

_//Let us hope it stays that way.//_ Optimus replied, seriously.

_//Downtown clear.//_ Chromia reported.

_//East airfield clear. The Lancers are primed and ready to go.//_ Ironhide said.

Bumblebee came to a stop on the lift a moment later.

_//Bumblebee reporting in, with Sam and Dave. We are headed topside now.//_

As he spoke, the lift lurched beneath him and began its lumbering ascent.

_//Very good. Autobots, assemble at the eastern airfield.//_ Optimus ordered, and there was a flurry of acknowledgments in English and Cybertronian in response. Bumblebee accelerated forward as soon as the lift came to a stop, and it was no time at all before they were driving down the airstrip in the shadowy light of pre-dawn.

It was immediately obvious where they were headed. Optimus stood next to Ratchet and Ironhide at one end of a large, empty airfield. Behind them stood dozens of soldiers, all in full military dress and arranged in neat formation. Behind them was a long, tidy row of military vehicles—Humvees, DAF trucks, and Kamaz transports. It was an impressive sight, and Sam realized suddenly that Optimus was rolling out the red carpet.

Bumblebee slowed to a stop not far from the Autobot leader, and they quickly climbed out of his cab. As soon as they were clear, the yellow mech transformed and motioned for Sam to follow him. He walked towards his guardian, who stood some distance from Optimus, behind him and to his right.

“Stay close to me.” He murmured, his voice serious.

Sam nodded in response, fully understanding the implication in his guardian’s words.

Over the next twenty minutes, humans and Autobots alike continued to arrive. They all took their position, without needing to be told where to go. The Autobots arranged themselves around their leader according to rank, forming a loose semi-circle. Sam could make out Lennox walking down the row of soldiers, his gaze critical and assessing.

No one spoke.

Sam glanced up reflexively at the roar of a jet engine, tensing from head to toe.

“It’s ours.” Bee said, assuringly.

Sam nodded, his jaw tight.

“Good to know.”

Optimus looked at Ironhide, who lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug.

“I’m not reading anything, Optimus.”

“Nor I.” The Autobot leader rumbled in reply, his optics scanning the horizon with focused intent.

“Megatron knows the show of force we’d assemble to receive the _Trion_. I don’t think even he would risk those odds.”

Optimus nodded, but did not reply.

It was ten minutes later when the Autobots stiffened in comically perfect unison, turning their helms to look at a spot on the horizon. Bumblebee crouched, nudging him with a finger.

“Look, it’s the _Trion._” He said. Sam followed the Autobots’ gaze, and saw a pinpoint of light in the soft blue sky. As he watched, it grew steadily bigger. It was only moments before Sam could make out the faint rumble of the _Trion’s _engines, which built to a roar as the ship approached. Once the vessel was close enough to see, Sam was taken aback by its beauty. It was a slick, gold-plated ship, long and narrow, with an elegant command bridge rising over its hull. It came to a stop over the empty airfield, lowering slowly as struts extended from the base of the ship. The struts sank into the soft soil of the field, as the ship completed its landing.

Sam shifted on his feet, practically vibrating with excited anxiety. Optimus walked forward, stopping a short distance from the _Trion’s_ hull. There was a pregnant pause, and then a large hatchway opened with a hiss of decompression and lowered to the ground.

Prowl walked down the ramp beside a red, white, and blue mechanoid, and together they stopped in front of Optimus. Prowl brought an arm up across his chassis and lowered his helm, bending deeply at the waist.

“Prime. The _Trion_ is yours to command.”

Optimus reached out both arms and clasped Prowl on his shoulders.

“Welcome to Earth, Prowl. You have been greatly missed.”

Optimus turned and looked at the red, white, and blue mechanoid standing beside him.

“Ultra Magnus. It is good to see you once again.”

The large mech inclined his head respectfully.

“I am honored to serve you, Prime.”

Prowl and Ultra Magnus fell into formation at Prime’s side.

“Greetings, humans! Nice little planet you’ve got here.”

Sam glanced back to the _Trion_. A red and yellow mechanoid had jogged down the ramp, bouncing slightly on his pedes as he stopped in front of Optimus.

If looks could kill, the glare on Ultra Magnus’ face would have done it.

“Welcome, Hot Rod." Optimus greeted, and the younger mech inclined his head respectfully towards him.

Four other mechanoids walked down the ramp behind the newcomer. Two were more heavily armored than the others—one was red-and gray and the other was sunshine yellow. The third was a smaller frame, paneled in silver and blue, and the fourth was tall and lithe, with black and silver paneling. They stopped in front of Optimus, nodding their heads or bowing at the waist in varying degrees of deference.

Optimus nodded, “Welcome to you all. It has been a long and difficult journey, and it heartens me considerably to welcome you to this place that we have come to call home. Together, may we hope to rekindle the best of Cybertron while protecting this planet from those who would seek to do it harm.”

As though his words were a release, the yellow Autobot jogged forwards, crushing Sideswipe in a tight embrace. Cybertronian flew back and forth between the two of them, and it was evident even to Sam’s ears that it was an emotional conversation. Hot Rod and the red-and-gray mechanoid walked towards them, and Bumblebee stepped forward to greet them.

“Hey Bee, my man! How’s it going?” Hot Rod greeted enthusiastically.

Bee chirped back at him, and they grasped arms tightly.

“Bumblebee.” The red-and-gray mechanoid greeted warmly, “It has been a long time.”

“Cliff.” Bee greeted, his optics bright, “It has.”

Hot Rod’s optics fell on Sam and he exclaimed in excited surprise, “Look at you! You are just adorable.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. Before he could reply, however, the mech abruptly crouched down, leaning completely into his personal space and poked him with a large digit.

“Is this your human, Bumblebee? They’re so _small_.”

Sam flinched back from the touch like he’d been tasered, startled by the unexpected contact. Beside him, Bumblebee bristled indignantly and snapped something in angry-sounding Cybertronian. Hot Rod blinked at him in surprise, raising his servos placatingly as he stood.

“Forgive me, Bumblebee. I meant no offense.” He glanced down to Sam, his optics brightening in consternation, “My apologies, human.”

Cliffjumper shook his head in exasperation, crossing his arms loosely across his chassis, “Read the room, Roddy.”

The red and yellow mech whistled long and low in apology, and Sam released a harsh breath that he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Cliffjumper crouched down in front of him, maintaining a respectful distance, “Hello Sam. I am Cliffjumper. I have known your guardian for a long time.”

Sam nodded at him slowly, “Yes, I know. I’ve heard all about you. It's nice to finally meet you.”

Cliffjumper tilted his head curiously, “Is that so?” He glanced at Bumblebee who had stopped glaring daggers at Roddy long enough to look at his friend, “What stories have you been sharing about me, Bumblebee?”

Bumblebee shrugged, his posture loosening, “The good ones.” He replied enigmatically, much to Cliffjumper’s chagrin. He looked at Sam.

“You’ll have to fill me in one day soon, so I can tell you how it really happened.” He said, amused.

Sam huffed a laugh as Bumblebee rolled his optics dramatically. Hot Rod glanced behind them and tugged on Cliffjumper’s shoulder.

“Look, it’s Arcee and Sideswipe. Let’s go say hello.” He said, enthusiasm back in his voice. Cliffjumper nodded, stepping backwards. To Sam’s astonishment, they both crossed one arm across their chest and bowed to him from the waist, as they had done to Optimus. As they walked away, he glanced up at his guardian, looking for an explanation.

“You’re Prime’s ward.” He said, as though that explained everything.

“Not helpful.” He replied, exasperatedly.

Bee tilted his head, “Sam, you are a ward of Cybertron and the _de facto_ Ambassador to Earth. That in and of itself would command their respect—or rather, it should.” Bee’s voice dropped an octave in irritation. He blinked in surprise at his guardian, before he realized that Bee was thinking about Hot Rod’s behavior.

“It’s okay.” He said with a nonchalant shrug, “No harm done. He was just excited.”

Bee shook his head at him and continued, “But even if that were not so, Optimus Prime himself is indebted to you. As the last living Prime and the leader of the Autobots, his debt extends to all of those under his command.”

Sam frowned, feeling deeply discomforted.

“Bee, that’s insane. I’m not worth the fuss.”

His guardian looked down at him in surprise, before his optics softened minutely. Rather than reply, however, Bee nodded towards Optimus.

“Let’s go meet the others.”

Pushing his hands into his pockets, Sam followed Bumblebee towards the group of mechanoids standing in a loose semi-circle around Optimus. The Autobot leader turned as he approached.

“Sam, it is my honor to introduce my secondary commanders. This is Prowl, Chief Military Strategist and this is Ultra Magnus, City Commander.” Optimus gestured to each mech, who in turn inclined their heads deeply towards him. Sam felt himself blushing to the roots of his hair.

“It’s… it’s very nice to meet you.” He said at last, struggling to find words in the face of the surrealism that had hit him like a ton of bricks.

Optimus gestured to the blue and silver mech who was standing next to Prowl.

“This is Bluestreak, engineer.”

Sam smiled at the blue mech, “You must know Wheeljack, then?”

He nodded jerkily, “Oh yes. I have known Wheeljack for megacycles. We trained together at the Academy in Iacon. He was prone to causing explosions back then—has he changed at all in that regard?”

Before Sam could open his mouth to reply in the negative, Bluestreak continued talking, “But even when he was making things explode, Wheeljack was still brilliant. Perhaps one of the most brilliant-minded engineers ever sparked, certainly the most talented sparked in the Golden Age, although that’s not really saying anything, considering the state of the Academy before the start of the Great War—“

Bluestreak stopped speaking abruptly, silenced by the restraining hand that Prowl had placed on his chest.

Optimus’ optics were amused, and he gestured next to the black and silver mechanoid standing beside Ratchet.

“This is Ripcord, analyst.”

Sam looked up at the mechanoid, and was immediately taken aback by the intensity of his regard.

“It is nice to finally meet you, Samuel Witwicky.” Ripcord rumbled. Although his words and manner were inoffensive, Sam felt inexplicably disquieted by the Autobot.

“Just Sam is fine.” He murmured, eventually. Ripcord nodded in assent.

The conversation moved on, and Sam listened quietly as Optimus and the others discussed what had happened in Egypt. His mind was focused inward, however, trying to puzzle out the uncomfortable feeling that had lodged itself in his chest. Eventually, he decided that he must be projecting his own insecurities. With a concentrated effort, he ignored the anxiety that was niggling at the corner of his mind.

It wasn’t until later, after introductions had been completed and they had returned to the Hive, that Sam realized Ripcord was the only Autobot who had not bowed to him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your positive feedback on the last chapter. I am so appreciative and so touched.

Several hours later, Sam found himself sitting on the stairs of the metal scaffolding in the command center. The room was once again bustling with activity, a flurry of highly organized chaos. Optimus and Prowl stood side-by-side at the conference table, watching the hologram of the solar system. The small red dot that signified the _Ark_ blinked steadily at them, as it slowly approached the dashed line that represented the outer edge of their enhanced sensor range. Ironhide stood beside Ultra Magnus a short distance away, the two large-framed Autobots engaged in deep discussion. Sam smiled as he looked around the room. It was remarkable how the arrival of the new Autobots had altered the mood of the base. It somehow felt less rigid, less impersonal.

“Something on your mind?” Bumblebee asked. The yellow scout was crouched beside him, the two of them almost a similar height from Sam’s position on the stairs. He leaned against the scaffold, peering at the mech through the guardrail.

“No, not really.” He said with a smile, “Just relieved, I guess.”

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, and Sam reached through the guardrail to run a hand over his guardian’s helm affectionately.

“The _Ark _is Optimus’ ship, isn’t it?” He asked after a moment, withdrawing his hand. He remembered Bumblebee mentioning something about it when they had stayed up talking after his most recent nightmare.

“Yes and no.” Bumblebee replied, “Optimus commissioned it and he was its first commander, but it is not his ship _per se_.”

“It’s a warship, though?”

Bumblebee nodded, “It’s a Vanguard-class interceptor, one of the most powerful in Cybertron’s fleet. If we can get it here in one piece, there is a good chance that we will be able to repair the damage it has sustained. It would give us a significant tactical advantage—one we will need, if Skywarp and Thundercracker ever arrive.”

Sam tilted his head at his guardian.

“Wheeljack mentioned them. What’s the big deal?”

Bumblebee whistled long and low.

“They are Starscream’s trine-mates. Together they are the most powerful command trine in Cybertron’s army. As airframes, they outmatch us in terms of speed and maneuverability—they also have trans-warp capabilities, which invites the possibility of ambushes and hit-and-run attacks. It will make planning and engagement considerably more difficult.”

Sam frowned at the yellow Autobot.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not, but we have Prowl with us now and his military strategy is peerless. He will be able to come up with a plan.”

Sam noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to look. Optimus, Prowl, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide had moved to stand around the hologram in a loose semi-circle. Sam could see that the small red dot had finally crossed the dashed line on the projection. Prowl typed something into the keypad in front of him, and then he nodded to Optimus.

“_Ark_, this is Optimus Prime. Do you receive me?”

There was a long pause—far longer than it took the _Trion_—and then a crackle burst forth from the speakers.

“We are receiving you loud and clear, Prime. Kup reporting in. Unfortunately, our comms are fragged and I cannot transmit visual.”

“It is good to hear from you again, old friend. What is the state of the _Ark_?”

There was another animated crackle of static, and then Kup was speaking again.

“We have sustained moderate damage to our hyperfuel intake accelerators and extensive damage to the forward hull and aft thrusters. It will be a bumpy trip planet-side.” Kup rumbled.

“What is the state of your landing systems?” Ironhide inquired.

“They are functioning adequately. I do not anticipate any problems in that regard.”

“There is a sizable Decepticon presence on this planet, including Megatron, Starscream, and Soundwave—the latter of which is currently in high orbit.” Prowl advised.

“The weapons are the one thing on this ship that’s not limping. We will be prepared.”

“Be highly cautious of an aerial engagement, Kup. The surface of this planet is teeming with indigenous lifeforms, which Optimus has vowed to protect. An errant canon blast could be disastrous.”

Kup scoffed at the strategist, “My weapons strike where I intend them to strike.”

Optimus raised a restraining hand, “Hopefully this will not be an issue. The _Trion_ was able to land without being harried—Primus willing, the same will be true for the _Ark_. If not, Prowl will provide tactical guidance as the situation unfolds.”

Optimus glanced at the strategist, who nodded in acquiescence, before continuing, “How soon can you make it planet-side?”

“If we push the engines, we could break atmo in a cycle and a half. Perhaps less.”

“Make due haste, my friend, but do not compromise structural integrity for speed. It is more important that you arrive in one piece, than you arrive quickly.” Optimus rumbled in reply.

“Understood. _Ark_ out.”

Optimus turned to Prowl and Ultra Magnus immediately, speaking lowly. Sam couldn’t make out what the Autobot leader was saying, but he assumed that he was readying for the _Ark_’s arrival. Suddenly, Bee chirped at him and Sam glanced towards his guardian.

“What’s up?”

“Cliffjumper and I are about to go on morning patrol. Would you like to come?”

Sam glanced towards Optimus, wondering whether the Autobot leader would agree, when Bee chirped at him again.

“Optimus has already given his permission for you to accompany us on patrols, if you wish.”

Sam grinned at the scout, “Then yes, absolutely. Let’s go.”

Bumblebee chirped at him enthusiastically, stepping away from the scaffold and transforming into his alt-mode. Sam was on his feet in an instant, jogging down the stairs two at a time. The driver’s side door popped open as he approached, and he quickly climbed inside.

“So Cliff is taking over for Sideswipe?” He asked, as they accelerated out of the command center.

“Cliff volunteered. He knows how difficult the separation has been on the twins.”

Sam tilted his head at the dash considerately, “You know, I’ve never wondered this before, but how are Autobot twins born, er, sparked?”

“Spark twins are exceedingly rare, believe it or not. They occur when one spark divides during the early stages of the sparking process. When that happens, the Creators create a second chassis and place the twin spark within. The bond between spark twins is revered in our culture—second only to a spark bond.”

“Bond?”

Bee hummed considerately.

“It’s difficult to explain, as there is no human equivalent. There are a number of tangible bonds amongst our people. The simplest of these is the Creator bond—a mental connection between a Creator and a sparkling. This connection is imbalanced: the Creator has full control over what is shared and when, by both parties. A Creator bond allows for the transfer of base programming to a new sparkling. It can also be used to control a sparkling’s systems, especially in the early vorns.”

Sam tilted his head, completely fascinated.

“So a Creator can physically control a sparkling through the bond?”

“They can, by accessing a sparkling’s primary, secondary, and tertiary systems. But a good Creator limits their control, as it can negatively affect the development of a sparkling’s independent programming.”

Sam squinted at the dash, “Do you have a bond with Optimus?”

There was a soft burst of laughter-like static.

“I do, although neither of us has activated the bond in millennia. While Creator bonds are permanent, it is rare for either party to access it after the sparkling has left the crèche.”

“But you could, if you wanted to?”

“If I wanted to, yes, but I don’t.” Bumblebee replied, amusement in his voice, “It’s infantilizing.”

Sam nodded slowly, “I can see how that would be true.”

“The second type of bond is the one that exists between twins.” Bumblebee continued, “The connection between them is deeper and more profound than a Creator bond, as they are technically a single spark in two chasses. A twin bond is deeply personal, as each has access to the other’s core programming and sub-routines. Essentially, they know what the other is thinking and feeling at all times, so long as they are in range of one another.”

“Sounds… noisy.” Sam said, and Bumblebee chuckled in response. 

“Apparently it is not. You will have to ask Sideswipe or Sunstreaker to explain it further.”

_Not likely_, Sam thought wryly. Sideswipe was sarcastic and short-tempered on a good day. If his brother was anything like him, Sam was happy to leave well enough alone.

They had arrived at the large receiving area, and Sam saw a sleek red and black Bugatti Chiron parked by the lift, waiting next to a red and orange Lamborghini Centenario. Sam’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline at the sight of the flashy sports cars.

“You guys realize you’re on a tropical island, right? You have about two inches of clearance on those alts, and most of this patrol is on packed dirt trails.” Sam said, directing his question towards Bee’s dashboard.

_//I’ll patrol and look bitchin’ doing it.//_ Hot Rod replied cheerfully.

“Alright, but don’t whine to me if you tear out your undercarriage and have to spend the night listening to Ratchet lecture you.” He paused, fully aware that the medic would be listening, “I’ve been on the receiving end of it—it’s not a fun trip, let me tell you.”

Bee whistled at him amusedly, before reporting, _//Bumblebee and Sam, checking in.//_

_//Cliffjumper, checking in.//_

_//Hot Rod, coming along for kicks.//_

There was an exasperated huff through Bumblebee’s radio, and then Prowl said, _//Acknowledged. Proceed to Marianne Point.//_

The three vehicles accelerated forward until they were on the lift, which immediately lurched beneath them. It was no time at all before they were driving through the downtown area, and Sam remembered that they had been in the middle of a conversation.

“So, what’s a spark bond?” He asked, curiously.

“The most rare and precious of all bonds. It occurs when two compatible sparks spontaneously develop a connection. Like the twin bond, a spark bond is a mental connection between two mechanoids that allows each bot access to the other’s most central programming. Unlike the Creator bond and the twin bond, however, the spark bond is more… intimate.”

Sam decided not to comment on that. He was sure the scout’s wording had been deliberate, and he had no desire to have a bots-and-the-bees conversation with his guardian.

“Why are they so special?” He asked instead.

Bumblebee hesitated, as though trying to find an adequate way to explain a complicated concept, “Part of the reason is their rarity—in my entire lifespan, I have only met a few dozen mechs who were spark-bonded. The second reason is the nature of the bond itself. Due to the intimacy shared between two bonded sparks, it is rare for one to outlive the other—they either die of shock or they destroy their own spark in grief. The sensational nature of spark bonds has featured prominently in our culture, which further increased their value and appeal. Suffice to say, they are considered very precious among my people.”

“Do any of you have a spark bond?” He asked curiously, and his guardian chuckled in response.

“No, we do not. Spark bonded pairs are pretty obvious—they’re highly territorial of one another. It can make them a real liability in combat.”

“I can see why, especially if the death of one means the death of the other.”

Bumblebee hummed in acknowledgement, “That is why spark bonded pairs are usually kept off the battlefield unless they’re both war frames, and even then it’s a risk.”

_//Marianne Point clear, proceeding to south-central.//_ Cliffjumper reported.

They drove in companionable silence until they reached East Point, when Hot Rod apparently reached his limit for being quiet.

_//This is a crazy planet, Sam. Very organic.//_

Sam huffed a laugh, “It can be. There is very little organic matter in the Arctic or Antarctic, or the deserts and mountain ranges. It just happens that organic life is good at thriving in the right conditions.”

_//However did your species manage it? Soft and squishy as you are.//_

Sam rolled his eyes, “I’m not an evolutionary biologist, you’ll have to look it up. Besides, we’re more resilient than we look.”

_//You’d have to be.//_ Hot Rod replied doubtfully.

“Hey!” He protested, affronted.

_//I’m just saying, your species is vulnerable to every conceivable threat—extreme heat, extreme cold, too much water, not enough water, disease, predation—// _

_//Hot Rod, I am going to scrap your vocalizer if you don’t knock it off.// _Ironhide growled.

There was a contrite chirp from the Lamborghini, followed by a protracted silence.

_//I’m not the only one who sees it though, right?// _He asked, tentatively, after a moment.

_//Humans are adaptable and capable, Hot Rod. They compensate for their lack of hardened chasses through their ingenuity, creativity, and steadfast determination.// _Prime replied patiently.

_//Cust Point clear, proceeding to Barton Point.//_ Bumblebee cut in dryly.

When they arrived at Barton Point, Bumblebee popped the driver’s side door and Sam climbed out. Bumblebee rolled back several feet, and transformed. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod followed suit in short order. Roddy stepped over the berm, and jogged to the shoreline.

“There is so much water on this planet!” He observed enthusiastically. Sam, Cliffjumper, and Bumblebee trailed behind him.

“There is.” Sam agreed, coming to a stop a foot away from the shoreline, “Have you guys spent much time on planets with liquid water?”

“Some.” Cliffjumper replied, “As you can imagine, aquatic planets are generally unconducive to supporting Transformer life.”

Sam laughed, “Yeah, you guys don’t seem especially buoyant.”

“Strange that the dominant species on a largely aquatic planet is terrestrial.” Roddy said, crouching down to run his servo through the water.

Sam tilted his head at the mechanoid, “Not so strange. Most people enjoy the water.”

That seemed to surprise the Autobot, “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, “As a species, we spend a lot of time in and around the water. We use waterways for food resources, transportation, and recreation. I was born on the coast of California. I was swimming before I could walk.”

Roddy looked stunned by this information.

“You mean figuratively, surely?”

Sam laughed, “No, literally. My mother took me to the Y for swimming lessons when I was an infant.”

Roddy whistled in amazement, “How remarkable. You enjoy the water, then?”

“Of course. I’m a great swimmer, but I also kayak, longboard, and waterski. I can’t wait for the chance to get back in the water.”

Hot Rod tilted his head at him considerately, then he reached forward and grabbed him around the waist. Sam didn’t even have the chance to protest before Roddy pitched him into the shallows with an easy, under-handed toss. He was airborne for the space of seconds, his arms windmilling desperately, before he landed belly-first into the ocean. Sam surfaced a second later, spluttering as he clambered to his feet in the chest-high water.

On the shore, Bumblebee and Cliffjumper stood frozen with identical expressions of horrified disbelief on their faces. Hot Rod, on the other hand, looked exorbitantly pleased with himself—as though he had just done Sam a great kindness. Bumblebee strode quickly into the water, chirping urgently in Cybertronian. Behind the scout, Cliffjumper shoved Hot Rod hard against the chest.

“I’m fine, Bee.” Sam grumbled as he waded towards the shore. When he got closer, he gave Hot Rod an exasperated look, “So you’re new here, I get that. Let me give you a tip: don’t lob people into the fucking ocean without their permission.”

Hot Rod looked contrite, “But you said—“

Sam held up a restraining hand, “In fact, just avoid touching people all together without their consent.”

Bumblebee crouched down as he approached. Sam pulled off his shirt and wrung it out as best he could, before pulling it back on. He looked pointedly at the scout.

“I hope Cybertronian leather isn’t ruined by water, or your cab is going to be a mess.”

“Sam.” Hot Rod said hesitantly, “Please forgive me. Evidentially, the subtleties of your language still elude me.”

He sighed in exasperation, “Apology accepted, Hot Rod,” Sam said before looking up at the tall Autobot with a wry smile, “But the next time you throw me into the ocean, I’m going to have Bumblebee kick your ass.” 

Cliff chuckled as he gave the red and yellow Autobot another shove, “You’re lucky he didn’t shoot you, Roddy.”

Hot Rod shoved him back, “Bumblebee’s got nothing on me.”

Sam glanced at Bee with a grin, but the scout’s expression made him go still. His guardian was staring at him with a naked intensity that he could almost feel. Sam stepped close, looking up at him.

“I’m fine.” He said, nudging his guardian with his hand, “You ready to go?”

After a moment, Bumblebee nodded and stood. Sam walked past the three Autobots, his shoes squelching in the sand and his jeans chafing his thighs. He grimaced in discomfort. The three Autobots transformed when they reached the road, and Sam climbed into Bee’s cab with a grunt. The ride back was uneventful. By the time they had settled into the floor of the receiving area, he was looking forward to a hot shower and a change of clothes. Bumblebee’s driver side door popped open, and Sam climbed out. As soon as he stepped away, the three Autobots transformed.

“So that was lots of fun.” Cliffjumper said with a lop-sided grin, “Let’s do it again sometime.”

Sam huffed a laugh at the red and gray Autobot, “Says the guy who didn’t go for an unexpected swim.”

Before Cliffjumper could reply, Sam heard a _tsk’ing_ sound behind him. He looked over his shoulder to see a serious-looking officer frowning at him in disapproval. Sam glanced down, and saw that he was spreading sand and water all over the floor.

“Jeez, Sam.” Hot Rod said in an exaggerated stage whisper, “I hope you left some beach behind for everyone else.”

His words caused Sam to laugh loudly in affronted amusement. The officer’s mouth pulled down in displeasure as he turned away, but Sam paid him no mind.

“Roddy, you’re an asshole.” He said, good-naturedly. He leaned against Bumblebee’s struts with one hand, and pulled his shoes and socks off with the other.

Hot Rod shrugged, the Cybertronian-equivalent of a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“If you guys will excuse me, I’m going to go shower.” He glanced at Bumblebee, “When is the _Ark _expected to arrive?

“Approximately oh-three-hundred.” Bumblebee replied.

“When’s your next patrol?”

“Four o’clock this afternoon.” Bumblebee replied, switching to the 12-hour clock for Sam’s benefit.

“Would you mind if I join you again?” Sam asked, tentatively.

The expression on Bumblebee’s face was suddenly inscrutable and intense.

“You are always welcome.” He replied sincerely. Sam grinned up at the scout.

“Great. I’ll see you guys in a while.” He waved over his shoulder as he headed towards the bridge. The walk back to his room was an uncomfortable one. His jeans were cold and clung to his thighs, and he got more than a few curious looks from passersby. No wonder, given he was dripping wet and walking barefoot through a highly classified military facility. As soon as the door to his room closed behind him, Sam peeled off his wet clothes. He grimaced to see that the insides of his thighs were chaffed, red and raw.

_Perfect_.

Sam showered quickly, sluicing salt and sand off his body and down the drain. A short while later, he wandered back into his room with a towel slung around his hips, looking for clothes. He opened his closet and grabbed the first pair of pants he saw (a pair of jeans lying in a heap on the floor) before pulling a thin, long-sleeved shirt off a hangar. When Sam pulled on the pants, he shoved his fists into the pockets and froze. Slowly, he pulled a familiar-looking piece of folded paper out of the pocket, staring at it in surprise. He had completely forgotten about Mikaela’s note.

Sam sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. With a growing sense of trepidation and anguish, he unfolded the paper and read.

_Sam,_

_Please forgive me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t speak with you in person. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry that I am not strong enough to do this. _

_I’m just sorry._

_Please don’t think it’s because I don’t love you—it’s because of how much I love you. I can’t look you in the face and say good-bye again. I just can’t do it. Now our last memories of each other are happy ones, and that’s the way I want it._

_They are sending me to Maine. I’ll be okay. You will, too. I know it. You’re stronger than you realize._

_I love you, Sam. _

_xx Kaela_

He read the note a second time before he realized that he was crying. The apathetic haze that had shrouded his mind since he had said good-bye to his parents evaporated in a wave of grief that rocked him to his core. Grief for his parents and Mikaela. Grief for himself.

The ironclad emotional control that he had maintained for the last five days shattered. Unable to do anything to prevent it, Sam put his head in his hands and sobbed.

* * *

He didn’t know for how long he sat there, but his head was pounding and his eyes were sore by the time Sam had cried himself out. He got to his feet and stumbled towards the bathroom, turning on the taps and splashing his face with cold water. He stood there for a long time, trying to steel himself, before he walked to the living room. Sam wandered aimlessly around the space for hours. He turned on the television, changing channels until he settled on a police sitcom, which he proceeded to ignore. He flipped through several paperback novels, but did not read more than a paragraph of each before setting them down again. He was on his umpteenth trip around the living room when he noticed the stack of papers on the desk.

Sam walked over and flipped through the materials, before he pulled out Stanford’s academic calendar. He frowned down at the glossy cover, feeling equal parts vindictive and resigned. It was a long moment before he pulled out the chair and sat down, thumbing through the pages slowly. He got to the academic departments section, and glanced through each in turn.

Anthropology (no). Applied physics (no). Biology (no).

He paused briefly on the Communications Department section, remembering his interest when Optimus had explained about logistics during their walk through South Quad. He dog-eared the page, and moved on.

Computer science (no), earth science (no), engineering (no, although he had enjoyed his time in Wheeljack’s lab). 

He turned the page and paused. Geography. Curiously, Sam flipped through the department section until he reached the course list. He glanced through the introductory courses: _On Becoming a Geographer; Geography & the Human Habitat; Geography and our Planetary Environment._

Sam made to move on, when another course caught his eye.

_Political Geography_.

With increasing curiosity, Sam read the course description.

_Political geography examines the spatial character of political processes at the local, national and global scales. Major themes include: territory, identity, and the state; localism, regionalism, and separatism; colonialism and decolonization; geopolitics; and internal and international political conflicts._

Sam tilted his head considerately, and continued reading the course list.

_People, Place and Power; Identities, Boundaries, and Mobilization; Comparative and International Politics; Political Violence and Human Rights._

Sam felt his heart starting to beat faster in his chest. He had no idea that political geography existed as a sub-discipline. He had loved geography in high school, being drawn to its breadth and depth. Before making a decision, Sam forced himself to continue flipping through the academic calendar to see if anything else caught his eye. When he got to the Political Science section, he read the department description. It was less exciting, focusing more on issues of political philosophy and public opinion than Sam cared for. By the time he flipped to the end of the academic calendar, he had made up his mind.

With a growing sense of determination, he pulled the course schedule out from the pile of papers on the desk. Sam flipped to the Communications section first. _Introduction to Communication_ was offered this term, as was _Reporting, Writing, and Understanding the News._ He smirked to himself at the course name, but put a star beside it anyway. He flipped next to the Geography section. There were no lower-level courses on Political Geography, but there were several prerequisites that were available. He put a star beside _Introduction to Human Geography_ and _Global Population Debates._ Then, grudgingly, he flipped to the Political Science section, and made note of the introductory course _The Science of Politics._

Sam stared at the paper in front of him, surprised to find that he was trembling. This was the first decision that he had made for himself since Optimus had turned his life upside down on the flight deck of the Theodore Roosevelt. The warm burst of self-efficacy he felt by asserting this tiny bit of autonomy was a heady feeling.

He glanced at the academic calendar. The first day of classes for both on-line and in-person students was August 26. He picked up the cellphone on the desk and unlocked it, scrolling to his contacts. Sam selected Dave Carter from the list, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Sam, what’s up?” The agent asked, as soon as the call connected.

“How do I register for courses?” He asked without preamble.

Dave paused, as though taken aback, “I will take care of it for you. Do you know what courses you’d like to take?”

“I do.” Sam said firmly, “I can send you the list.”

“Alright, please do. Stanford’s on-line courses are managed through Blackboard. Do you know it?”

Sam nodded, though the agent couldn’t see him, “Princeton used it. How do I purchase textbooks?”

“Send me the list when you get your course syllabi. I’ll place an order through Procurement.”

Sam frowned slightly. The term began in three days, and he knew that it would take a while for the textbooks to arrive at the super-secret military facility.

“How long will it take for them to get here?”

“It’ll take a while, but I can arrange for you to have access to digital copies until they do. We’ll order your textbooks for next semester in advance.”

“Okay, thanks Dave. I appreciate it.” Sam replied.

“No problem.” The agent said, disconnecting the call without a valediction.

Sam sat back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of accomplishment the phone call had evoked, before he texted Dave a picture of the course list. Having done so, he glanced at the time and was surprised to see it was already 3:10 PM. Abruptly, Sam realized that he was starving.

It was no time at all before he was sitting in a corner of the mess hall, working his way through a plate of buffalo chicken pasta. Sam ate quickly, keenly aware of the time. He wanted to be back in the receiving room by quarter to four. After he finished his meal, he deposited his tray at the receptacle and started walking towards the bridge. He was surprised by his good mood, given his earlier meltdown. Although, he mused upon reflection, it was possible that the note was actually a contributing factor to his current emotional state. He had a lot of shit weighing him down, and the release had been cathartic—painful, but cathartic. Sam was still mulling this over when he stepped onto the bridge. He was half-way towards the receiving room, when a voice interrupted his brooding.

“Good afternoon, Sam.”

Sam jerked in surprise, his eyes snapping up to see Ripcord standing in front of him.

“Hello Ripcord.”

“Where are you going?” The analyst asked.

“I am heading to the receiving room. Bumblebee and I are going on patrol.”

Ripcord tilted his head, “I cannot imagine you would have much to contribute to a patrol. Stay here and speak with me instead. I have much to ask you.”

The analyst’s words immediately put Sam on the defensive, although he could not say why. Ripcord was right, after all: Sam was a passenger at best and a liability at worst. He shifted, avoiding the Autobot’s gaze.

“Bumblebee is expecting me. I have to go.” He said at last, his voice only just polite.

“Then I shall accompany you.” The analyst said, gesturing down the hallway. Unable to see an alternative, Sam started walking.

“I understand that you spent time with the Allspark, before it was destroyed.” Ripcord said shortly thereafter.

Sam nodded, “I did.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell.” He said uncomfortably, “I am sure you’ve been briefed.”

“I have.” Ripcord agreed, “But I would like to hear you say it.”

Sam glanced at the Autobot, confused by his wording.

“Say what?”

“Your perspective.” He replied after a moment, as though it were obvious what he had meant.

Sam frowned, “There’s not much to tell. I was taken to Sector-7, found the Allspark, and then Bumblebee and I drove it to Mission City. The original plan was to fly it to safety, but Megatron and Starscream arrived, making it impossible to evacuate the Allspark by air.”

Ripcord hummed considerately.

“So Prime ordered you to destroy it.”

Once again, Sam felt discomforted by what the Autobot had said, even though his words and manner were inoffensive. Seeing no reason to lie, Sam nodded.

“Yes.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah, I did.” He said, softly.

“An unavoidable tragedy.” Ripcord observed.

“It was.” Sam said, and he meant it.

Ripcord glanced at him in surprise, “I am pleased to hear you say so. As a human you could not possibly understand the full scope of our loss, but your sympathy is noted.”

Sam flinched inwardly. Ripcord could have no idea how close to home his words had hit. They walked together in silence for a while longer, before the analyst asked quietly.

“What was it like, to hold that power in your hands? To watch it extinguish in front of you?”

Sam pulled up short, frowning.

“It sucked, Ripcord. Alright? I didn’t want to destroy it, but I was in survival mode. It was Optimus or Megatron, and it wasn’t going to be Optimus.”

The analyst looked at him, his optics bright.

“Please, forgive my intrusiveness. I was a temple priest during the Golden Age—I both studied and revered the Allspark. Where once I was a theologian, however, now I am merely a historian. I consider it my sacred duty to learn all I can about the Allspark, now that it has been destroyed.”

To Sam’s great relief, they had reached the entrance to the receiving room.

“I understand,” He didn’t, “If you have any other questions, you should ask Optimus.”

Ripcord nodded, and Sam walked through the door without another word.

* * *

Sam shifted from foot to foot, staring out over the eastern airfield. It was dark, given the late hour, but floodlights had been arranged around them in a large semi-circle. As with the previous morning, Autobot and human soldiers alike stood in tidy formation as they awaited the arrival of the _Ark. _Bumblebee glanced down at him, but said nothing. The scout had noticed his reticence from the moment he had entered the receiving area, but Sam had refused to talk about it. What could he say? _Sorry Bee, I’m upset because I destroyed the most precious artifact of an entire religion, and its High Priest is put out about it? _ Not likely. Besides, Ripcord had been polite, albeit rather forward. It was Sam’s own insecurity that motivated his cageyness.

Sam glanced around the airfield for what felt like the hundredth time. There was an atmosphere of heightened vigilance among them. As Optimus had explained earlier that evening, the _Ark_ was a top-priority target and it was currently handicapped. It would be easy pickings for Megatron and Starscream, if the two Decepticons had recovered enough to take advantage of the opportunity.

Sam huffed quietly. He was standing next to Bumblebee at the edge of the airfield; as with that morning, the scout had told him to stay close. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod were nearby, both of them mirroring Bumblebee’s tense alertness.

“There it is.” Bumblebee said, breaking the silence. Sam glanced at his guardian, squinting.

“Where?”

“There, Sam-my-man, look.” Hot Rod pointed towards the horizon, but Sam couldn’t see anything over the glare of the floodlights. It was not long, however, before the roar of the _Ark_’s engines became audible. Within moments, the sleek disc-shaped ship had approached and settled onto the airfield, wobbling precariously as it touched down.

Without taking his eyes off the _Ark_, Sam asked, “Anything, Bee?”

The scout whistled quietly in the negative, and Sam felt himself incrementally relax.

As with the _Trion_, Optimus stepped forward to receive the crew of the _Ark_. The landing ramp extended jerkily to the ground, and almost immediately there was the ringing of metal on metal as the Autobots descended to stand in front of their leader. Sam craned his head curiously. The nearest mechanoid was heavily armored and broad-framed, his greenish-gray plating marred by scars and dings that were obvious even from a distance. The second mechanoid was shorter and narrower in frame, with red, blue, and black plating. Beside him, stood a lithe Autobot whose red and black plating gleamed in the floodlights. 

“The _Ark_ is yours to command, my Prime.” Kup greeted, jerking Sam’s attention back to the greenish-gray Autobot.

“Welcome to Earth, Kup. You are most welcome.”

The grizzled old mechanoid inclined his head respectfully. Behind him, the three other Autobots did the same.

“Perceptor and Mirage, be welcomed.” Prime greeted. There was a murmur of assent from the three Autobots, and then they drifted into the group, greeting old friends with enthusiastic hugs or excited peals of Cybertronian.

Sam glanced at Bumblebee, “So that’s it, then?”

“That’s it.” His guardian confirmed, optics bright. He rocked on his pedes.

“Aw shucks. I was hoping to kick some uppity Decepticon ass.” Hot Rod said, swagger in his voice.

Cliffjumper huffed at him, “I’m sure you’ll get the chance eventually. They aren’t going anywhere.”

Before Hot Rod could reply, Bumblebee nudged Sam and murmured, “Prime wants you.”

Sam glanced up at his guardian, a moue of distaste on his face. Bumblebee shrugged sympathetically before he started walking towards the Autobot leader. Sam sighed in bourgeoning annoyance and started after him a moment later.

“Sam,” Optimus greeted warmly as he approached, “It is my honor to introduce Kup, the Elite Guard.” He gestured to the greenish-gray Autobot who stood next to him. Kup inclined his head deeply in response, and Sam felt the familiar blush steal up his face. Optimus gestured to the mechanoid with red, blue, and black plating who stood between Kup and Prowl.

“This is Perceptor, scientist.”

He glanced towards Perceptor, who regarded him with open curiosity. Suddenly, the mechanoid stiffened from head to toe. He snapped his helm towards Optimus, warbling something urgently in Cybertronian. Optimus paused for a fraction of a second, before he sighed in resignation. Sam looked from Optimus to Perceptor, and back again.

“Is there anything you two would like to share with the class?” He snapped, unnerved.

Kup and Ultra Magnus shared a look of surprised disapproval at his words, evidentially taken aback by his tone.

Optimus looked at him, his optics softening in regret.

“Sam, I would speak with you.” The Autobot leader said, and Sam knew it was not a request. His heart lodged itself in his throat, as he realized with sudden clarity that this had to do with their conversation yesterday in the medical bay. As if commanded, the other Autobots dispersed away until it was only Optimus, Bumblebee, and Ratchet standing at the edge of the airfield. Sam shifted uncomfortably.

“What’s going on, Optimus?”

“Not here.” The Autobot leader rumbled, lowering to one knee as he extended his palm. Sam felt a surge of impatient anger, and he was tempted to demand that Optimus tell him _right-the-fuck-now_. With difficulty, Sam quashed the temptation. He was well aware of the gravity of their last private conversation, and he had no desire to humiliate himself by losing his temper in front of the newcomers. After a moment, Sam climbed onto Optimus’ hand and held his breath as the Autobot leader transformed around him.

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Sam grumbled as he landed in Optimus’ driver seat, “I’ll never get used to that.”

The Autobot leader did not reply. Instead, he accelerated towards the base at a quick clip. Glancing at Optimus’ rearview mirror, Sam saw Ratchet and Bumblebee following behind him. The sight made dread twist in his gut. Ratchet’s presence he understood, but Bumblebee was an unwelcome sight. Sam knew that there was only one reason the Autobot leader would invite his guardian: he thought Sam would need the moral support.

Sam sat silent and rigid in Optimus’ cab up until the time the Autobot leader entered the medical bay and rolled to a stop. He barely had the time to brace himself before Optimus was transforming around him and then placing him on a nearby berth. By the time Bumblebee and Ratchet approached in their bipedal modes, Sam thought he might actually throw-up from anxiety.

“Out with it.” He said, grimly, “What’s going on?”

Ratchet cycled a weary-sounding sigh.

“You will recall that I scanned you on the deck of the Theodore Roosevelt and was taken aback by what I had found.” The medic began. Sam frowned deeply, nodding. He remembered, all right.

“The scan I used that morning was my most sophisticated sensor sweep. With it, I can learn about the human body on a genomic level. At the time, I had thought I was being overly cautious. As it turns out, however, my prudence was most fortunate.”

Sam crossed his arms, well aware of how defensive it made him appear, “And?”

“It is routine for this scan to reveal an accumulation of mutations—impairments—of deoxyribonucleic acid, including impairments of mitochrondrial functions and protein misfolding that have accumulated over time. This is normal: as an individual DNA strand becomes too damaged, it either dies off or enters a non-replicating state. This on-going process is called senescence.”

Sam raised a restraining hand, huffing in exasperation, “Can you try that again, for those of us without advanced degrees in biology?”

Ratchet cycled air through his vents, but there was no disapproval or frustration in the medic’s voice as he continued.

“When I scanned you that morning, I noticed two significant abnormalities. The first was that your cells were radiating Allspark energy—just a signature trace, but detectable nonetheless.”

Sam jerked back in shock, but Ratchet continued before he could say anything.

“The second abnormality was that none of your DNA is undergoing senescence.”

Sam glanced from Ratchet to Optimus, and back again.

“What are you saying, Ratchet?”

The medic paused, uncharacteristically hesitant, “Sam, senescence is normal and expected for organic life—the outcome of which is the process of aging.”

Sam felt himself go cold all over. It took him a moment before he could ask, lowly, “Are you saying that I’m not _aging_?”

“Not precisely. As soon as your DNA undergoes a structural mutation, it repairs itself rather than triggering the senescence process.”

Sam stood in shock for a long moment before he slowly sat down on the berth. It was a while before he was capable of responding.

“Okay, so what do we do? How do we fix this?” He asked, voice low and tight.

Ratchet glanced sidelong at Optimus before he replied with simple certainty, “We don’t.”

“What do you mean _we don’t_? You said yourself, you have millions of years’ of medical experience. You must be able to do something.”

“Sam, even at the height of the Golden Age, we knew very little about the Allspark or its properties. I simply don’t have any means to correct what’s happened to you.”

“I can’t accept that.” He said disbelievingly, “You can do anything. Please, Ratchet.”

“Sam.” Optimus said remorsefully, “I am sorry, but there is nothing we can do.”

Sam looked between the two Autobots, uncomprehendingly, “What are you saying? Ratchet? What does that mean?”

The medic had an uncharacteristically sympathetic look on his face, “Sam, I simply do not know. This effect may fade in time, or it may not. It may prevent your aging, or it may not. I do not have any answers—but I can promise you that I will do my utmost to find them.”

Sam shook his head, unable to come to terms with the information he had been given. The possibility of immortality was the subject of innumerable stories, but the reality was far less fantastical. What would it be like after the first hundred years? After he had watched everyone that he loved grow old and die? What would it be like after a thousand years? Ten thousand? How long would it take for him to lose his mind?

He sat in numb silence, unable and unwilling to speak.

“Sam, are you all right?” Optimus asked, hesitantly.

“Peachy, Optimus.” He replied, dully, “Why not? I’ve already come back from the dead and met a cadre of alien demi-gods. Why not add immortality to the mix? Because _fuck my life_, that’s why.”

By the time he had finished speaking, Sam’s voice had turned ugly, becoming bitter and lost. Bumblebee’s wingflaps fluttered anxiously as he whistled at him softly. Sam didn’t look at the scout. He couldn’t.

“Sam, please know how deeply I regret all that—“ The Autobot leader started, but the words inflamed something inside of him and Sam snapped his head up to glare at him.

“You _should_ be sorry, Optimus. I hope you are. Every bad thing that has happened to me over the last two years is entirely your fault. If you hadn’t ejected the Allspark into space and if you hadn’t decided to destroy it, none of this would have happened.”

Sam knew his words had the desired effect when Optimus jerked back as though he had been struck. Yet the flash of anguish across his face—quickly tucked beneath an impassive façade—was enough to lodge a spear of guilt in Sam’s chest. His shoulders curled inwards and he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized quietly, “That was unfair. You’ve always made decisions with the best intentions in mind, I know that.”

Optimus was quiet for a long while. For an organism capable of processing terabytes of data in a single second, his silence spoke volumes.

“Optimus, really—“ Sam tried again, wretchedly.

“You have done nothing to give offense, Sam. Your apology is appreciated, but unnecessary.” Optimus replied at last. Sam stared at the Autobot leader’s face searchingly, but he could not tell whether Optimus was being sincere or stoic. After a moment, Sam sighed heavily.

“It’s just… what now?” He asked quietly, “I don’t know how to process this. I am way out of my depth, here.”

“Sam,” Ratchet said, his voice unusually sincere, “We may not have the answers, but we are here with you. We will figure this out as we go along—together.”

Bumblebee whistled at him softly in agreement, and Sam finally looked at his guardian. The eye contact seemed to encourage the scout, who gently brought a hand up to caress his back—the same gentle touch that he had used on the beach. It was a promise and a benediction, and it was unwaveringly sincere in its regard.

Sam understood exactly what the scout was trying to say.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all for your wonderful feedback and support! It means more to me than I can say.

The weeks that followed passed by in a blur.

Unable to come to terms with what he had been told, Sam withdrew into himself, pushing away everyone around him—humans and Autobot alike. Dave and Will were taken aback by his sudden coldness, but they respected his desire to be left alone. The Autobots did not seem to notice his complete avoidance, or if they did, he never heard about it. Only Bumblebee, Optimus, and Ratchet refused to be driven away, steadfastly weathering both his temper and self-pity. Cliffjumper and Hot Rod hovered on his periphery—neither pushing in nor letting themselves be deterred by his aloofness. They were just there, waiting, for whenever he was ready.

The nightmares that followed were hellish. On a good night, Sam would sleep restlessly for short periods, three hours here or five hours there. On bad nights, his nightmares would jerk him awake after only a short while, hyperventilating and soaked in sweat. On those nights, Sam never tried to fall back to sleep. Sometimes he stayed in his room with the lights on, other times he needed to _get out_, and so he would walk. His wanderings often drew him to Bumblebee, like magnets of opposite poles. When that happened, Sam would stay with him for hours—sometimes he would nod off, but usually he didn’t. On those sleepless nights, Bumblebee would talk to him, telling him about the goings-on in the world or sharing stories about his past. Sometimes Sam was quiet, other times he was expressive and emotional. Through it all, Bumblebee never once asked him to _talk about it_, and for that he was thankful.

On other nights, Sam would aimlessly walk the corridors of the Hive. After the first few nights of listless wandering, Optimus’ holoform had shimmered into existence beside him not long after he had left his room. The first few times this had happened, Sam had snapped at him to leave him alone. Optimus had nodded, understandingly, and the holoform had disappeared. The Autobot leader was persistent, however, and by the fourth night Sam stopped rebuffing him. As with Bumblebee, Optimus allowed Sam to dictate the terms of their time together. Sometimes Sam talked, but usually he was quiet. Optimus would follow his lead, understanding and supportive and _there_. Sam was thankful for that, too.

Dr. Karen Anderson and Chief Master Sergeant Robin Williams arrived to the Hive in early September, transferred from the USS Theodore Roosevelt. Karen, as she insisted he call her, started twice-weekly therapy with him in her comfortable office in the South Quad. As with everything else, Sam struggled with therapy in those early weeks, cagey and defensive, but Karen was patient and skilled in her craft. Eventually, she helped him lean into the therapy process. He cried in her office for the first time at the end of September; she quietly assured him that he was making progress.

Sam’s days eventually developed into a familiar routine, as the _otherness_ of the base faded over time. In the morning, he would eat breakfast and then accompany Bumblebee and Cliffjumper on their morning patrol. He enjoyed the patrols, even though there was not much beyond the occasional washed-out road or damaged infrastructure to report. It made him feel useful. Occasionally Hot Rod would come along, and they would spend time together at the Point. Especially in the early days, Sam would sit on the beach for hours, lost in his thoughts. Even though he was sure they had better things to do, they never rushed him—never made him feel like an inconvenience. It was another thing for which he was quietly thankful.

When they returned from the morning patrol, Sam would spend four or five hours in his apartment, studying. He watched lectures and multimedia, read his textbooks, and went over his notes—he was obsessive about it. Other than patrols, his classes were the only thing that made him feel independent, feel _capable_. The rest of his life might be a maelstrom of external influences, but his coursework was something that was entirely within his control. He jealously guarded his school time like a dragon with a golden horde. Eventually, people learned not to disturb him between the hours of ten o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon. He would join Bumblebee for evening patrol at four, and then he would eat supper and spend the night on his couch as he nerved himself up for bedtime.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things began to improve.

The first turning point was his mid-term examinations. Sam approached the exams like a strategist would approach a battlefield, with meticulous planning and no contingency left unconsidered. For weeks, either he was on patrol with Bumblebee or he was in his room, which had come to resemble the Princeton library after the Pretender had ravaged it—books and papers everywhere. When his mid-term grades came back, he was relieved to find that he had earned mostly As and one B+ (Political Science, of course). It made him feel good. It made him feel _useful_.

That night, he was walking through South Quad when Optimus’ holoform appeared beside him. It was so routine now that Sam didn’t even startle in surprise, merely nodding at the Autobot leader in greeting. From the onset of their walk, Sam was unusually chatty, cheered as he was by his mid-term grades. He talked good-naturedly about the lectures he’d watched that afternoon, about his upcoming assignments, and about his mid-term exams. During a lull in the conversation, Optimus glanced sidelong at him, and said with sincere conviction, “I am proud of you.”

Sam was taken aback by the way those words warmed him, and after a moment he replied, softly, “Thanks.”

The second turning point was Thanksgiving. Sam was sitting in his living room, his political science textbook open on his lap, when the door chimed. He glanced up, a frown on his face. It was just after noon, and he felt a flash of irritation at being interrupted halfway through his chapter. The chime sounded again, and Sam set the textbook on the coffee table, before padding over to the door. To his genuine surprise, Will and Dave stood in the hallway, both wearing casual clothing. Sam almost didn’t recognize the PA in a long-sleeved Packers shirt and jeans.

“Hey Sam.” Will greeted.

“Hey guys.” Sam said, warily, “What’s up?”

“Get your shoes. We’re going to the dining facility to watch the game.” Dave said, cheerfully.

Sam looked from Dave to Will, and back again.

“The game?” He asked, mildly.

“Packers versus Lions.” Dave said, hands in his pockets and his posture relaxed, “Come on, let’s go. Game starts in forty minutes.”

Sam stared at them in surprise. Neither Will nor Dave had approached him uninvited since August. 

“I’m studying” He said lamely.

Will rolled his eyes, “Get your shoes Sam. It’s Thanksgiving, you can take a break.”

To his surprise, Sam found himself slowly nodding.

“Yeah, okay.”

He stepped back into the room long enough to toe on his shoes and grab his cellphone and badge, and then they started off. Dave and Will walked ahead, and Sam let himself be pulled along in their wake. The three of them walked to the dining facility together, sitting at a round table opposite the bar, close to the flat screen television mounted on the wall. The room was surprisingly packed, given the early hour, and the atmosphere was cheerful.

Will flagged down the server and ordered a whiskey. Dave ordered beer. The two men looked at Sam expectantly, and he shrugged.

“Whatever is on tap is fine.” He said.

Dave and Will carried the conversation, discussing the upcoming game and shit-talking the Lions. Sam was quiet, but he wasn’t having a bad time. Dave glanced at him with a lop-sided smile about halfway through his beer, “We should do this again next Packers versus 49ers game.” 

That made Sam smile into his glass, “Oh, I don’t know. I’d hate to embarrass you like that.”

“The only embarrassment I’ll be feeling is vicarious embarrassment. I’ll try not to rub your nose it.”

Sam laughed quietly.

“Big words for a Cheesehead.”

“A _proud_ Cheesehead.” Dave corrected, finishing his beer. Sam shook his head exasperatedly, and finished his own drink. The game started shortly thereafter, and they fell into a companionable silence as they watched the kickoff. Dave flagged down the server this time, and ordered himself another drink. Will and Sam did the same. When the Lions took control of the football immediately after kickoff, Sam laughed out loud. Dave scoffed without taking his eyes off the television.

“They’ll get it back.” He said, loyally.

They did, shortly thereafter, and then they got the first touchdown of the game. Dave laughed in his face when they crossed the end zone, and Sam inclined his head good-naturedly. They were halfway through the first quarter and he was at the bottom of his second drink, when he realized that he was having a good time.

He was halfway through his third drink when he realized that he was having a great time.

It was almost dinnertime when they stumbled through the receiving area of the Hive, six sheets to the wind. Dave was jovial, having watched the Packers beat the Lions 23-22, and Sam was pleasantly surprised to learn that he was a happy drunk. He waved cheerfully to Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, who were standing by the terminals at the other end of the space. Cliff’s face pulled up in surprise but Roddy whistled cheerfully at him, throwing him a thumbs-up.

Sam stared at his phone as they walked through the bridge, typing out a text message. He had finished his third drink before he had started assailing Bumblebee with texts about the game and their conversation. Bee had left to go on patrol about forty-five minutes ago, and Sam was determined to keep him in the loop. Absorbed as he was, he barely noticed Dave pull up short.

“Optimus.” Dave greeted self-consciously.

Sam glanced up from his phone to see Optimus’ holoform standing beside a harried looking aid, whose arms were full of papers. The holoform’s eyebrows raised in momentary surprise before tolerant understanding dawned on his face.

“Dave.” The Autobot leader greeted, inclining his head. His eyes flickered to Sam, who smiled at him unabashedly in return.

“Hey Optimus.” He said, cheerfully, “Packers won, so I owe Dave twenty dollars. Can you transfer it to his expense account for me?”

Optimus’ eyebrows raised once again, and the corner of his lips twitched. “I will.”

Sam glanced at Dave, an easy-going smile on his face, “See? I told you I was good for it.”

Dave murmured in acknowledgement, and Will grinned at the aid with undisguised enjoyment, clearly amused by his discomfort.

“Well, we’re off.” Will said, taking pity on the man, “See you tomorrow, Optimus.”

The Autobot leader’s face was quietly amused.

“Good evening, Will. Dave.” Optimus said before turning to look at Sam in fond exasperation, “Drink some water.”

Sam nodded, humming in acknowledgement as he began composing another text message to Bumblebee. The rest of the evening passed by in an alcohol-soaked blur, but when he woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, Sam found that he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The rest of November passed amicably. Cliff and Roddy wore him down, slowly but surely, and Sam eventually warmed up to the two scouts. By December, the four of them had become something of a package deal. Like Bumblebee, Cliff and Roddy were endlessly tolerant of Sam’s (increasingly rare) outbursts of temper or depression.

Sam was half-way through his final exams when he realized that it had been a week since he had last had a nightmare. The insight took him by surprise, and he set his textbook on his lap as he contemplated it. His nights were still restless, and he wasn’t sleeping as much as Ratchet would like—as the medic reminded him often and at volume—but it had been over a week since he had wandered the base in the middle of the night.

The realization made him smile.

When the end of the semester rolled around, Sam waited anxiously for his final grades to be posted. He was not good company, restless and distracted as he was. The grades went live on December 17, and Sam had sat in front of his laptop at midnight, waiting for the clock to roll before he refreshed the page. He blinked in surprise when he saw the GPA printed above the list of his classes: 3.93. The accompanying burst of pride in his chest made him blink rapidly. It was his first semester of university, he was sequestered away from his family and friends, and had been rocked with the knowledge that he was _other_, but Sam had still managed to pull it off. The smile that split his face was so genuine that it almost hurt.

The happiness from end-of-term grades was short-lived, however. The holidays hit Sam hard, and he had a rough few weeks. He was short-tempered and withdrawn, especially around Christmas, which Sam steadfastly refused to celebrate—a fact he made perfectly clear to those who he had let close to him. Understanding the tenuousness of Sam’s trust, they had respected his decision without comment.

Late on Christmas Eve, Sam found himself in Bee’s cab, parked on Simpson Point not far from the base. The driver’s seat was fully reclined, and Sam stared aimlessly out Bee’s windshield at the sky.

“What do you think they’re doing, right now?” He asked abruptly, breaking the silence. Bee chirped at him gently, surprised. Sam avoided talking about his parents or Mikaela—he hadn’t mentioned them once since he found out about the Allspark energy that was radiating from his cells. The scout took a moment to reply, choosing his words carefully.

“Wherever they are and whatever they are doing, I know they’re thinking about you—just as you’re thinking about them.”

Sam heaved a shuddering sigh, blinking hard.

“Thanks Bee.” He said, after a while. Sam was quiet for a while longer when he glanced down at the dash and saw it was 12:02 AM. He stared at the numbers for an interminable time, considering his next words, before he murmured, “Merry Christmas, Bee.”

The scout chirped at him, soothingly.

“Merry Christmas, Sam.”

By January, Sam had come back around. The Spring semester was three weeks away, but he was already preparing. He had printed off his syllabi, created a calendar outlining the due dates of his assignments and exams, and started on his assigned readings. Karen was pleased enough with his progress to reduce their sessions to once per week, and Sam felt optimistic for the first time since packing off to college.

The first attack happened three days later.

* * *

Sam glanced at his watch as he strolled out of the mess hall. It was 7:30 AM, plenty of time to make it to the receiving room for patrol. He pulled out his phone and composed a quick message to the group text that contained Bumblebee, Cliff, and Roddy: _On my way._

His phone pinged seconds later.

_Bee: See you soon._

Sam grinned at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. He was wearing tan cargo shorts and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It might be January, but he was in the tropics and it was already 80 degrees despite the early hour. It was 7:45 AM by the time he made it to the receiving area, grinning as soon as he caught sight of Bumblebee. The yellow scout was standing in his bipedal mode with Cliff and Roddy, talking animatedly in Cybertronian.

“Morning, guys.” Sam greeted good-naturedly as he approached, “Ready to go?”

Bumblebee chirped an affectionate hello as he crouched down in front of him. Sam reached out a hand to grasp Bee’s cheek plate, giving it a playful tug. Once, shortly after the _Trion _arrived, he had done something similar in front of Ultra Magnus and Ratchet, who had been standing in the receiving room before patrol. Ultra Magnus had been taken aback, and had asked Ratchet in his usual direct manner, “Are humans always so tactile?” Ratchet had glanced in his direction, and shrugged before replying, “Sam is an unusually tactile member of an unusually tactile species.”

The medic’s words had pulled him up short. He didn’t think he was particularly touchy-feely, and the self-consciousness that followed had made him painfully aware of his actions. It had only taken a few days for him to realize, however, that he wasn’t _unusually tactile_—he was just unusually tactile with Bumblebee. He had hesitantly broached the subject to his guardian, and asked whether it bothered him. Bee had whistled at him reassuringly, so Sam put it out of his mind. Let Ultra Magnus think whatever he wanted.

“Sure am, Sam-my-man.” Roddy agreed, bouncing slightly on his pedes.

Sam glanced at the Autobot in surprise; he had thought Roddy had training with Ironhide that morning. His confusion must have been evident, because the red and yellow mech explained happily, “Ironhide and Kup are working on the propulsion on the _Ark_, so training got moved to this afternoon.”

He smiled at the scout, pleased to hear it. It was always more fun when the four of them patrolled together.

“Alright, well it’s almost eight. Let’s go. I want to be back early today; I’m getting a head-start on _Perspectives on American Journalism._”

“Nerd.” Roddy teased as he transformed into his alt mode alongside Cliff and Bee.

“Douchebag.” Sam replied good-naturedly as he climbed into Bee’s cab.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, reporting in.//_

_//Cliffjumper reporting in.//_

_//Hot Rod, Primus’ gift to Earth, reporting in.//_

He laughed out loud, grinning at the dashboard as he waited for the inevitable response. It took less than a second before Prowl’s exasperated sigh gusted over the comm channel.

_//Acknowledged. You are cleared for departure. Good luck.//_

Sam strongly suspected that Roddy lived to get under Prowl’s chassis, because he certainly did everything that he could to annoy the strategist.

It was barely twenty minutes later when they were driving past the ordinance storage site in the western-central quadrant. The conversation on the comms channel was unusually animated, and it focused on Optimus’ recent petition to the Secretary-General of the United Nations, formally requesting that Diego Garcia be recognized as a nation-state and granted membership within the general assembly. The petition had already received approval from the five permanent members of the United Nations (China, France, Russia, United Kingdom, and the United States), though it had taken months of diplomatic negotiations and treaty agreements to accomplish that feat. In three days’ time, the petition was going to be presented to the General Assembly for consideration. A two-thirds majority vote was required for the petition to be approved, and a number of member countries were already expressing ardent opposition—Iraq, Kuwait, and Venezuela chief among them. No surprise there, Sam mused. Fossil fuels were the backbone of their economies, and Optimus had promised to share Cybertronian energy technology if admitted to the assembly.

The vote was about more than just recognition of Diego Garcia as an independent nation-state, however. If the petition was successful, then the Autobots would be recognized as equal citizens of Earth. The potential ramifications of that truth had been the subject of frenzied media coverage ever since Optimus had submitted the petition to the Secretary-General. Not that Sam could stand to watch even one minute of the associated press coverage of the vote—it hit too close to home. As a ward of Cybertron, this vote would also determine whether _he_ would be considered a citizen of Earth. Sam did not know how he would bear it if the vote failed to pass.

_//Kuwait is digging their heels in. They won’t approve the petition unless Optimus agrees to rescind his offer to share our energy tech.// _Prowl said.

_//Well tough Tetris, Kuwait.// _Cliffjumper said dryly.

_//If Kuwait is against it, chances are that Iraq will be for it. No love lost between them.//_ Ironhide replied.

_//True, but Kuwait has good relations with other members of the Gulf Cooperation Council, and a negative vote by Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, or Egypt would be problematic.//_ Prowl replied.

_//Egypt had better stay in their lane, after what Optimus did for them in Cairo. Same with Qatar and Syria.// _Sideswipe put in, tone crisp.

_//I expect that Egypt will be favorable to our petition, as will the United Arab Emirates.//_ Optimus speculated, _//And I doubt Qatar would vote negatively, as the United States and China have already approved the petition.//_

Bumblebee interjected to report, _//Southern Point all clear. Proceeding to East Point.//_

Sam listened quietly to the exchange, his anxiety slowly building as the Autobots debated how nations would vote. By the time they reached Cust Point, he found himself blurting, “Do you think it will pass, Optimus?”

There was a considerate pause, and then the Autobot leader replied.

_//I have confidence that the petition will be approved with objection. If it is not approved, however, then we will work on diplomatic relations and try again at the next general assembly.//_

“Not comforting, Optimus.” Sam grumbled.

_//Sam, regardless of whether the petition is approved, the Earth is our home now.//_

Sam huffed at the dashboard, taken aback by Optimus’ perceptibility. Leave it to the Autobot leader to cut to the quick of the matter.

“Well, that’s good because humans haven’t evolved for space travel.” He said wryly.

Before Optimus could reply, Bumblebee reported, _//Barton Point is all clear.//_

Sam glanced out the windshield as the scout slowed to a stop, surprised to see that they were indeed at the Point. When Bumblebee popped open the driver’s side door, he climbed out obediently, stretching his back. As soon as Sam was clear, Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode and stepped towards the beach. Roddy and Cliff followed suit a moment later.

“Swimming today, Sam?” Roddy asked, interestedly.

When Sam had first started coming along on patrols, Bee would stop at Barton Point to let him stretch his legs. Eventually his short walks had evolved to laying on the beach, relaxing or reading his textbooks. From there, horsing around in the water had been the inevitable next step. Roddy delighted in watching him swim, and was more than happy to pull Sam through the water at high speeds or let him use his servo as a diving board. He pushed his hands into his pockets, smiling at the red and yellow Autobot.

“Not today, Roddy. Didn’t bring trunks.” He said with a shrug. The scout whistled at him confusedly.

“But you’re wearing trunks.”

Sam glanced down and laughed.

“These are shorts, not trunks.”

Roddy crouched in front of him, tilting his head quizzically. It was a mannerism that Sam had come to interpret as _please explain this confusing human behavior._ He crooked a smile at the Autobot.

“Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense, I know. These shorts are for wearing on dry land, trunks are for wearing in the water. They’re different materials, and swimming trunks have mesh sewn on the inside.”

“That seems needlessly complicated.” Roddy said, a frown pulling at his brow ridges.

Sam shrugged.

“_Needlessly Complicated_ could be the title of humanity’s autobiography.”

Roddy’s optics brightened, whistling amusedly as he climbed to his feet. Sam glanced over his shoulder at Bumblebee and Cliff, who were standing together on the drift line. He opened his mouth to ask whether they were ready to head back when both Autobots stiffened from head to toe. Bee’s optics snapped in his direction.

“Sam—!”

A loud sonic boom cracked through the air, a sound so deep that Sam couldn’t tell whether he heard it or felt it. The force of the accompanying shockwave lifted him off his feet, slamming him into the ground several meters away. Sam desperately blinked sand out of his eyes, rolling onto his back to see three sleek-looking jets streaking through the sky. One banked hard, crossing the bay towards the base. The other two jets were on them in an instant, unleashing a missile salvo that exploded on the back beach, where Bumblebee and Cliffjumper stood. One of the jets transformed in mid-air, landing hard on the foreshore by Sam.

Sam stared up at the gray and purple mechanoid in horror, certain he was about to be incinerated by plasma fire, when the mech narrowed its red optics at him and growled.

“So it’s true.”

The Seeker reached for him, but Hot Rod was on him in an instant. Despite the Decepticon’s much larger size, Hot Rod’s frenzied attack caused the mechanoid to stumble backwards. Sam wasted no time; he was on his feet and running down the beach in an instant. Sam heard another explosion, and he risked a glance towards the road, where Bumblebee, Cliffjumper, and the second Decepticon were engaged in battle. Bee and Cliff moved in almost perfect unison, rounding on the blue and silver mechanoid viciously. The Decepticon raised a cannon and fired a shot that missed Bee’s helm by inches.

Sam was almost to the rocky bream that separated the beach from the road, when an explosion just feet behind him catapulted him into the air with dizzying velocity. He only had a moment to brace himself before the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed hard on the rocky bream, face-first, and the taste of blood immediately flooded his mouth. He laid there, winded and stunned, before he forced his hands beneath him and pushed himself to his feet. His head was ringing, the sounds of battle distant and confusing. He stumbled forward, shaking blood and sweat out of his eyes, determined to get to the tree line.

Suddenly, a large hand grabbed him around the waist and yanked him backwards. The all-consuming terror that had been surging through him turned to mortal panic in an instant. Before he could wonder who had him, he was being tucked close to a chassis as the mechanoid transformed around him. Barely seconds later, Sam landed hard in the driver’s seat of a Lamborghini, which was already speeding down the packed dirt road towards the dense forest cover. 

_Hot Rod._

The accompanying wave of relief made him feel lightheaded and dizzy. The seatbelt snaked around his torso of its own accord, which was just as well—Sam was too dazed to have done so himself. He became aware of a riot of noise erupting from Hot Rod’s radio.

_//I have Sam, proceeding to base.//_

_//Ratchet, Ironhide, and Jolt are en route, they are half a bream out.// _

_//Starscream has blown the western most fuel tanker—//_

_//Thundercracker injured and withdrawing, we are engaging Skywarp.//_

Sam recognized his guardian’s voice over the clamor, but before he could say anything Ratchet cut commandingly through the din.

_//Hot Rod, what is his condition?//_

“I’m fine, Ratchet.” He said, shakily. He scrubbed a hand across his face, staring confusedly when it came away slicked with blood.

_//He’s not.// _Roddy replied, voice unusually serious, _//I don’t know much about human physiology, but I’m sure they aren’t supposed to leak fluid like this.//_

“I’m fine.” He repeated, voice sharper than he intended, “What the fuck is happening?”

_//An attack by the command trine.//_ Prowl answered, voice calm and controlled.

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when the seatbelt tightened painfully across his chest. It was the only warning he had before an incandescent flash of light lit up the cab. There was a wrenching explosion on Hot Rod’s passenger side, and Sam was slammed into the driver’s side door as the car flipped and rolled. Sam watched the sky and ground cartwheel dizzily through the windshield for the space of seconds, before he lost consciousness.

Awareness returned to him slowly, confused and disjointed.

The first thing that trickled into his consciousness was the feel of grit against his cheek. He had a moment of profound disorientation, before he realized that he was lying on his side. He moaned, low in his throat, as the cleaving pain in his head pushed into his awareness.

“Sam, come on. Open your eyes.”

Sam heard the words as though he were underwater and far away. They were distorted and distant—confusing.

He felt an insistent nudge.

“Hold on, Sam. Ratchet’s almost here.”

Sam squinted his eyes open, immediately regretting it when the sunlight lanced through his retinas like a knife. He retched hard, vomiting the remains of his breakfast into the sand. The accompanying explosion of pain in his skull made him black out again.

When he resurfaced an interminable time later, it was to the sound of urgent voices.

“How long?”

“Three klicks the first time, two the second.”

“Give him to me.”

There was the sensation of movement, gentle and disorienting, before Sam grayed out. It was not a loss of consciousness, but rather a loss of _awareness_. He drifted, incapable of understanding the sensory stimuli his brain was receiving. The vibration around him was meaningless, as were the words that trickled through his consciousness, urgent and commanding.

_//Male, 19 years old, traumatic brain injury. Multiple minor lacerations to the face and chest. Prepare to receive him in the hospital ward.//_

The words washed over him like water off a windshield: meaningless and uninteresting. His consciousness stuttered confusingly, and then the quiet that had enveloped him shattered into a riot of noise.

“—pressure 129 over 79. Heartrate 122 beats per minute. Body temperature, normal. Oxygen saturation, normal. Loss of consciousness, eight minutes total. No swelling or bleeding of the brain detected.”

“Hand me the trauma shears.”

He felt a tugging at his neckline, but it was a periphery annoyance. Barely noticeable.

“Sam.” A gruff voice spoke loudly in his ear, “Sam, come on.”

A rough shake.

“No response to verbal stimulus. Applying a peripheral stimulus.”

There was a sudden, intense stab of pain in his hand, which brought Sam surging back to full awareness. He jerked awake, gasping in pain and confusion. He became aware of the hands on his body and his face, gentle but restraining, and he lashed out blindly.

“Sam, relax. I’ve got you.” The gruff voice cut through his panic, and Sam turned his head to see Ratchet’s blurry holoform. He blinked hard, willing his eyes to focus. They didn’t.

“Ratchet?” He rasped, voice wrecked.

“Yes, it’s me.” The holoform confirmed, stepping close. He raised a pen light and flashed it over his eyes. Sam flinched away in pain, screwing his eyes shut.

“Pupils unequal but responsive.” Ratchet said, dropping the penlight with a clatter.

“What…?” Sam gasped, “What happened?”

Rather than answer his question, Ratchet asked, “Do you know what year it is?”

He looked at the holoform in confusion. _What year…?_

“Sam.” Ratchet prompted, insistently.

“2019.” He answered slowly.

“That’s good, Sam. Who is the President of the United States?”

“President Davis.”

“That’s right. Do you know where you are right now?”

Sam looked around the room confusedly, squinting. White walls, tiled floors, two tidy rows of beds arranged in even intervals on opposite walls.

“…the hospital ward?” He guessed, uncertainly.

A smile pulled at the corner of Ratchet’s mouth.

“The answer I was looking for was Diego Garcia, but I’ll accept that.”

Now that he was cognizant again, Sam became aware of several unwelcome truths at once. The first was that he was lying, naked, on the hospital bed nearest the ward entrance. In addition to Ratchet, there were several other hospital corpsmen around him, including Dr. Lewis. She was standing at his side, pressing gauze firmly against the side of his face. The second realization was that he _fucking hurt_ from head to toe—his skull felt like someone had cleaved it open with an axe. He was shaking all over, hard enough to chatter his teeth. One of the corpsman brought him an open-backed hospital gown, and admonished him to stay still while he pulled it on over Sam’s arms and shoulders.

“Sam.” Ratchet said, pulling his attention back to the holoform, “Follow my finger for me.”

Obediently, he tracked the medic’s finger as it moved across his field of vision. Whatever Ratchet saw caused his mouth to turn down, but he said nothing. Sam became aware of the carrion taste in his mouth, a mixture of blood and bile.

“Can I have some water?”

“No, not yet.” Ratchet refused, “You might vomit again.”

Sam grimaced, “Can I wash my mouth out, then? It tastes awful.”

Ratchet looked at him searchingly for a moment, then nodded to one of the corpsmen. She stepped away momentarily, returning a short while later with a kidney dish and a small cup of water. Sam swished his mouth out, spitting into the dish with a moue of distaste until the water came away clear. All the while, Dr. Lewis stood beside him, pressing gauze against the side of his face. He handed the dish and the cup back to the corpsman, and let himself be settled back on the mattress.

“Sam, you have a laceration on your hairline and jaw that require sutures. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

He grimaced, nodding, and together Ratchet and Dr. Lewis started on the cut on his forehead, which Sam inferred was the worse injury of the two. Ratchet worked quickly, needle holder and forceps moving in quick succession. Sam only felt the occasional prick and a steady tugging sensation as the medic worked. He must have grayed out again, because when he opened his eyes next Ratchet was working on the laceration on his jaw.

He squinted at the medic, confusedly.

“Back with me?” Ratchet asked, without looking up.

“Yeah.” Sam replied, hoarsely, “What happened?”

The medic looked at him sharply, his gaze assessing.

“Post-trauma memory loss is common.” Dr. Lewis said, directing her words to Ratchet, “He probably won’t remember any of this in a few days.”

Sam looked from Lewis to Ratchet, and back again.

“What?” He asked, stupidly.

Ratchet’s gaze returned to his work as he explained patiently, “You were attacked by Skywarp and Thundercracker on patrol. Bumblebee is fine, he sustained only minor injuries. Hot Rod’s injuries were more severe, I am treating him now. Yes, I will tell Starscream that he’s off your Christmas card list.”

At Sam’s perplexed expression, the medic elaborated, “We’ve been through this once already.”

He blinked in surprise.

“I don’t remember.” Sam said, unable to keep the sharp note of anxiety from his voice.

“That’s normal. You have sustained a traumatic brain injury—your memory will be patchy for the next little while.” Lewis assured him, comfortingly.

Sam frowned at her, her words only deepening his concern.

“A traumatic brain injury?” He repeated.

“A grade three concussion.” She explained, “Marked by loss of consciousness for longer than three minutes. You’ll be fine—there’s no swelling or bleeding of your brain.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then.” He said, sarcasm sharpening his words.

Ratchet tugged the suture thread with more force than strictly necessary, and Sam leveled a glare at the medic. 

“Ow.” He deadpanned, pointedly.

Ratchet scoffed, “That didn’t hurt.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn’t reply. The holoform tied off the last suture, cutting the thread close to his skin before dropping the instruments on the tray beside him.

“How many stiches?” Sam asked, curious despite the pounding pain in his skull.

“Sixteen total. Eleven for one, five for the other.”

“Neato. I’ve never had stiches before.” He said, glancing around the room. A sudden thought occurred to him, and Sam’s gaze slid back to the medic, “Noticed you brought me to the hospital ward.”

Ratchet pinned him with a disapproving glower.

“It was closer.” He replied shortly, “How do you feel?”

Sam frowned, considering the question seriously, “My head hurts.”

“I would imagine so.” The medic replied, dryly, “Any vertigo? Dizziness?”

Sam nodded slowly, “Yeah.”

The holoform looked at him considerately, “Get some rest, Sam. If your nausea has subsided in a few hours, you can have something to eat.”

Sam glanced uncomfortably around the ward. “Can I go back to my room?”

Ratchet looked at him as though he had just said something extraordinarily stupid.

“You aren’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future, Sam. Now go to sleep.”

He felt too wretched to argue with the medic, so Sam laid back on the hospital bed with a huff. Ratchet gave him one long, searching looking before the holoform shimmered and disappeared. Even though the medic was no longer in the room with him, Sam was absolutely certain that Ratchet had a sensor trained on him. Dr. Lewis smiled encouragingly.

“I know you feel awful, but rest will help. I’ll turn down the lights—try to get some sleep.” She said, as she pulled the curtain closed around his bed. Sam could hear her footsteps recede, and a short while later the lights over his bed darkened. The other lights on the ward were still on, however, so he could still see perfectly well. Sam sighed, rolling onto his good side so that his stiches were not pressed against the pillow. Although he was certain that sleep would not come—given the pain and his whirling thoughts that were marshalling together against him—he still slipped into a heavy slumber almost immediately.

When he woke an interminable time later, the hospital ward was quiet. He knew instinctively that he had been asleep for a long while, as the cleaving pain in his head had softened to a gruesome pounding. He rolled onto his back, lifting his hand to press against his forehead, willing the pain to subside. When he dropped his hand a moment later, he noticed Optimus’ holoform sitting in the chair beside his bed. There was a weary stoop to Optimus’ shoulders, and the wrinkles that lined his eyes were unusually pronounced.

“Don’t stop me from going on patrols.” Sam said without preamble, his voice rough with sleep and pain. Optimus’ eyes flickered across his face, staring at him a long while before replying softly.

“It’s dangerous.”

“It can be.” Sam agreed lowly, “But I want to do it anyway.”

Optimus looked at him considerately, before he leaned back against the chair and sighed heavily.

“You could have died today, Sam. Or worse.”

“I didn’t.”

“You might not be so lucky next time.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Sam argued without heat, “I’m here because of Bee, Roddy, and Cliff. I’m safe with them.”

Optimus looked at him for a long while, before shaking his head resignedly.

“Against my better judgment, I will not prevent you from accompanying the scouts on their patrols.” He said, adding as an afterthought, “After Ratchet has given his consent for you to return to the field.”

Sam felt something unclench inside of him, and he whispered gratefully, “Thank-you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Optimus rebuked, “My unwillingness to take yet another thing away from you might well get you killed one day.”

He smiled softly at the Autobot leader, “Still. Thanks, Optimus.” 

They sat quietly together for the space of several minutes before Sam asked, “Do you know what they wanted?”

A troubled expression flitted across the holoform’s face. “We think they wanted you.”

Sam frowned deeply, confused.

“What would they want with me? To kill me, you mean?”

Optimus slowly shook his head, “No, we do not believe so. If that were the case, Skywarp could have accomplished it easily on the beach.”

“Then what?”

A foreboding look of rage crossed the holoform’s face so quickly that Sam almost missed it. Optimus seemed to take a moment to compose himself before he replied, “I do not know, but I am certain that Megatron is behind it. The command trine would not make a move against us unless by his orders.”

Sam frowned in thought, before something occurred to him.

“Did you list my name on the United Nations petition?” He asked. Optimus glanced at him in surprise, before a look of thoughtful consideration crossed his face.

“I did.” He confirmed, “As a ward of Cybertron and as our Ambassador.”

Sam didn’t comment on the Ambassador remark, replying instead, “I’m sure that would have really ground his gears.”

“Perhaps.” Optimus agreed thoughtfully. They were interrupted when the curtain around his bed was abruptly pulled aside. Ratchet’s holoform stood beside a familiar-looking hospital corpsman, who was holding a cafeteria tray of bland-looking food.

“Hello Sam.” He greeted briskly, “How are you feeling?”

Sam shrugged, “Better, but still shitty.”

Ratchet glanced at him wryly, “I’m sure. Follow my finger, if you would.”

The medic moved the finger across his field of vision, and Sam tracked the digit obligingly. Ratchet seemed a great deal more satisfied with whatever he found this time around, for he nodded.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Sam shrugged, “I could eat. I’m not nauseous anymore.”

“Nauseated.” The medic corrected.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Ratchet replied, taking the tray from the corpsman and setting it on the over-bed table. Further inspection of the tray confirmed his earlier observation: a bowl of thin broth, crackers, and a glass of water. Ratchet must have correctly interpreted his underwhelmed expression, for the medic said dryly, “Keep this down and you can have something more substantial later.”

Sam sighed resignedly, and picked up his spoon. Ratchet waited until he finished the soup before he started speaking.

“Your recovery is going to be trying, Sam. Post-concussion syndrome is most acute during the first ten days following the brain trauma, but symptoms can persist for up to three months. You can expect various symptoms, including headaches, dizziness, irritability, and insomnia.”

“Insomnia and irritability, that sounds familiar.” He said, wryly. Ratchet gave him an unimpressed look and continued as though he hadn’t just been interrupted.

“Blurry vision and light sensitivity are also common, particularly in the days following an injury. My bigger concern, however, is the concentration and memory impairments that will occur.”

He tilted his head considerately at Sam, “The long-standing recommendation for post-concussion syndrome is complete cognitive rest. Recent research, however, suggests that cocooning might actually be harmful, as boredom and isolation can foster the development of depression. Given your history, Karen and I agree that this is to be avoided in your case.”

Sam sighed in exasperation, “Can you give me the cliff notes version, Ratch?”

The medic’s eyebrows rose at the epithet.

“You’ll rest for the next three weeks—no school work, no patrols, no strenuous exercise. If your symptoms are manageable by the start of the semester, you can proceed with your current course load.”

Sam frowned at the medic, “And if they’re not?”

“Then you won’t. Depending on the severity of your symptoms, you’ll reduce your course load accordingly.”

Sam felt a flash of irritation, opening his mouth to argue, but Ratchet cut him off.

“No arguments. You gave me a veto, and I’m using it. If you want to improve the likelihood of taking a full course load, then you’ll dedicate yourself to resting between now and the start of the semester.”

The medic’s words pulled him up short. In the last four months, he had been respectful of Sam’s boundaries and his healthcare decisions. Although he had been vocal about his opinions on the matter, Ratchet hadn’t once overstepped his bounds. That he was willing to do so now, spoke volumes.

“Alright.” He said, after a long pause, “What do you want me to do?”

Ratchet looked at him searchingly for a moment, before he spoke. “Now I want you to rest. Sleep if you can, but if you cannot then lay quietly.”

Sam murmured his assent.

“I will visit you later, Sam.” Optimus rumbled from beside him. Sam glanced at the holoform, nodding.

“Yeah, thanks Optimus.”

The holoform’s lips turned up in the ghost of a smile before he shimmered and disappeared. The corpsman also left, retrieving his tray and stepping around the curtain. Ratchet stood there a moment longer, watching him.

“I need to use the bathroom.” Sam said, half a question and half a statement. The holoform came around to the side of the bed, lowering the rail with a practiced motion before offering his hand to him. Sam took it, and the medic helped him stand. He walked with Sam across the ward, not touching him but standing in close proximity. Sam understood it was to catch him if he fell. When the medic made to follow him into the bathroom however, Sam put his foot down.

“Not a chance. Wait here.” He said, embarrassment coloring his face.

The medic frowned at him, but assented. “Call me if you need assistance.” He said, stepping back. After Sam used the bathroom, he shuffled to the sink to wash his hands. The sight of his face staring back from the mirror took him by surprise. He was pale, with minor abrasions and nicks across his cheeks and forehead. There was a deep cut across the bridge of his nose, and a smattering of bruises purpling his face and neck. Sam pulled at the gauze that was taped at his hairline to reveal a tidy row of stiches extending down the side of his face. He grimaced, reaffixing the bandage. There was blood crusting in the hallow of both of his nostrils, and flaking through his hair. He pulled next at the hospital gown, looking at his torso. He was surprised to see a magnificent bruise extending from his left hip halfway down his thigh. It was a deep purple with an ugly blue-black center. Skywarp and Thundercracker had really done a number on him.

“Well fuck you too, you assholes.” He muttered.

When he was finished, Ratchet helped him back across the hospital ward. He was thankful for the medic’s presence, as his vision was swimming precariously by the time he was on the bed. Ratchet’s critical gaze swept over him and he asked, shrewdly, “Dizzy?”

“Big time.” He confirmed shallowly, “And nauseous.”

Ratchet pulled a kidney dish from the bedside cabinet and handed it to him.

“Try to get some rest. It’ll help.”

Sam nodded at the medic as the holoform stepped around the curtain. He clutched the dish reflexively as he reclined against the mattress, but eventually the nausea subsided. After a while, he put the dish on the over-bed table and pulled the blankets up to his chest. He did not intend to fall asleep, but his body had other ideas. He slept deeply, despite the comings and goings of a busy hospital ward, and when he woke up sometime later, there was a stranger sitting beside his bed. Sam blinked at the man blearily. He was young, perhaps early thirties, with close-cut blond hair. The stranger’s eyes flicked to his, and his face softened in a smile.

“Hello Sam.”

Sam smiled back at him fondly.

“Hey Bee.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so, so much for your continued support. Your comments, kudos and bookmarks literally make my day, each and every time. I especially appreciate those of you who tell me what scenes/interactions/dialogue you enjoy. It's helpful to know that I haven't completely gone off the rails. :)

The smile on Bee’s face deepened, warming with amusement.

“I wasn’t sure whether you would recognize me.” Bee said.

“Of course I knew it was you. I’d know you anywhere.” Sam replied, pushing himself into a seated position, “Are you okay?”

The corners of Bee’s lips quirked up in fond exasperation, “I’m fine, Sam. Some minor injuries to my strut and chassis, nothing that Ratchet can’t fix.”

Sam frowned, leaning forward, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“What about Hot Rod?” Sam asked, “Is he okay?”

“He will be okay.” The scout replied carefully.

Anxiety pooled in his stomach at the vague answer, “Bee, what aren’t you telling me?”

There was a noticeable pause before his guardian replied, “He will be okay—he’s currently in stasis. Ratchet repaired most of the damage from Thundercracker’s canons; his self-repair routines will take care of the rest.”

The anxiety in his stomach curdled into guilt in an instant. As though reading his mind, the scout admonished, “It’s not your fault, Sam.” When he didn’t reply, the scout repeated firmly, “It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about us, we’re fine. How are you feeling?”

Sam sighed, allowing the scout to redirect the conversation without protest.

“I’ve felt better in my life, but I’m okay.”

A small frown pulled at Bee’s features. He stood, crossing the space between them in a single step, and bracketed the sides of Sam’s face with his hands. Sam blinked in surprise, but did not pull away. Bee tipped his head back carefully, his eyes roaming over Sam’s face. The scout’s fingers brushed over his forehead and cheeks, cataloging every nick and bruise. Some distant part of him thought that he should be uncomfortable, with a strange man crowding his personal space, but he wasn’t. Regardless of what he looked like, this was _Bumblebee_, and Sam felt completely at ease under his hands.

After a moment, Bee’s hands dropped to his shoulders and squeezed gently.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you in time.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth quirked up. “Hey, the guilt trip is my thing. Get your own thing.”

Bee’s features brightened in amusement and he huffed a laugh, “I can have two things.”

“Maybe, but that one’s mine and I’m not sharing.” Sam quipped back. Bee huffed another laugh, before his voice turned serious again.

“How do you feel? Really?”

Sam shrugged, “My head hurts and I’m dizzy.”

“Understandable. You sustained a head injury when you landed on the bream; it was exacerbated by Thundercracker’s attack on Roddy.”

Sam frowned, perplexed and anxious in equal measures. “I don’t remember that.”

Although the warm expression on Bee’s face didn’t falter, his expression sharpened.

“What do you remember?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “I remember texting you after I left the mess hall this morning—was that this morning?” Bee nodded, and Sam continued, “And I remember getting stitches, but other than that, it’s all a blur.”

Bee nodded considerately, “Ratchet told us to expect impairments in your short-term memory and concentration.”

“So they say. I hate the idea of losing time.” He replied, voice tense.

Bee’s thumbs soothed gentle circles into his skin. “I’ll help you remember what I can.” The scout promised.

Sam didn’t reply, unsure of what to say. It was not like his guardian could be with him every moment of the day for the next three weeks—or longer. Bee continued rubbing his thumbs into the muscles of Sam’s neck, his touch solid and grounding. It felt nice, a welcome distraction from the pounding in his skull, but Sam found himself feeling unaccountably shy.

“You don’t have to do that.” He murmured, self-consciously.

Bumblebee hummed at him reassuringly, his hands feathering over Sam’s shoulders in a now-familiar gesture. Sam sighed softly, but he did not pull away. Encouraged by his reaction, Bee nudged him gently and Sam shifted obediently to give the scout better access. Bee’s hands ran down the length of Sam’s spine, his fingers tracing invisible patterns into the skin of his back through the opening of his hospital gown. As his hands dragged up Sam’s sides, the scout’s fingernails ghosted over his skin, and Sam shivered from head to toe. Again and again, Bee’s fingers ran down his spine, pressing into the muscles of his back, his touch alternating between feather-light and firm. Sam relaxed slowly, his head falling forward as his eyes fluttered shut. By the time Bumblebee began on the small of his back, he was limper than a wet dishrag, lost in a fog of oxytocin and dopamine.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ratchet’s wrathful voice cut through Sam’s relaxed haze like scythe. He startled in surprise, snapping his head up to look at the medic in confusion. The motion made the room spin, and he squeezed his eyes shut with a muffled groan. Bee made a concerned sound behind him, but Sam waved him off.

“You idiot.” Ratchet snapped, “You’re supposed to be in recharge, not wasting energon on a hardlight. I’ll deal with you later—go.”

Sam cracked his eyes open, squinting at Bee confusedly. The scout chirped at the medic in apology, a disconcerting sound coming from his human holoform, but Ratchet’s supremely pissed off expression didn’t falter in the slightest. Resignedly, Bee directed a rueful smile at Sam before his holoform shimmered and disappeared.

“Primus save me from head-strong scouts!” Ratchet groused irritably. Unsure what to say to pacify the medic, and not wanting to make things worse for Bumblebee, Sam remained silent. Ratchet came around to stand at his bedside where Bumblebee had been only moments before, pinning him with an appraising look.

“How do you feel?” He asked, gruffly.

“I’m alright.” Sam replied tentatively, “I got some sleep.”

“I’m aware.” Ratchet replied, pulling a penlight from his pocket, “Look here.”

Sam winced as the light sent pinpricks of pain into the back of his eyes, but he didn’t protest. Ratchet reached out both hands towards him.

“Squeeze my hands as hard as you can.” He instructed, and Sam complied. Whatever Ratchet learned from these tests seemed to mollify him, for his expression smoothed and his voice lost its irritable edge.

“Your condition is noticeably improved. I can find no evidence that your injuries will have long-term effects.”

“That’s good.” Sam replied.

The medic made a sound in agreement, “How are your other symptoms? Headache, dizziness, nausea?”

“My head feels like it’s being split in two,” He admitted, “The dizziness and vertigo come and go. The nausea went away pretty fast; I didn’t throw-up or anything.”

Ratchet nodded, “I can give you some acetaminophen after you’ve eaten. Do you feel up to something more substantial than soup?” 

Sam nodded, “I think so.”

“I’ll have Adams bring you a tray. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Yeah, sure.” Sam said, adding as an afterthought, “Can I shower? My hair is full of blood.”

Ratchet looked at him considerately, “There is a bench in the shower stall. I’ll agree to let you shower if you agree to sit the entire time.”

Sam nodded. He had no desire for Ratchet to find him passed out in the shower, ass naked. He gingerly climbed off the hospital bed, pleased when the floor remained steady beneath him. As he had earlier, Ratchet walked less than an arms-length away from him as they cut across the ward. When they arrived at the bathroom, Ratchet directed him to lean against the doorframe as he stepped up to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet and began pulling out linens, which he carried into the bathroom himself. It was no time at all before Sam found himself sitting alone in the spray of warm water. He washed slowly, disturbed by the amount of blood swirling the drain. After he was clean, he sat there for a long while with his head tipped back, enjoying the steady thrum of water against his chest. Eventually, there was a sharp rap at the door and Ratchet’s voice cut over the sound of the shower.

“Sam, time to get out.”

He rolled his eyes in annoyance.

“Alright _Dad_, give me a minute.” He called back, standing slowly as he turned off the taps. He stepped out of the shower, leaning against the sink as he toweled off. Getting dressed was a ginger undertaking, but he managed it, thankful that Ratchet had procured him a pair of pants. Sam opened the bathroom door moments later, fully expecting to receive a haranguing from the medic. Instead, Ratchet stood there with a strangely closed-off expression on his face.

“Your meal is here.” He said, tersely.

The walk back to the bed proved to be more challenging than the walk to the bathroom. Sam stopped halfway across the ward as his vision swam precariously. Before he could say anything, however, Ratchet’s hand was steadying him.

“Dizzy?” The medic asked, his hard manner softening minutely.

Sam nodded silently.

“Take your time.”

By the time Ratchet helped him back onto bed, Sam was exhausted and his head was pounding anew. He laid there a long while with his eyes screwed closed. Eventually, he managed to say wetly, “I can’t eat that.”

Ratchet made a considerate noise, “I’ll leave it. Eat later, if you can.”

Sam slanted his eyes open at the holoform, who was looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Thanks Ratchet.”

The medic huffed in acknowledgement, and then disappeared without another word. Sam closed his eyes again, mentally wishing Bumblebee good luck as Ratchet seemed unusually grouchy this afternoon. He shifted, settling more comfortably on the mattress, and raised his hands to rub at his temples. Not for the first time since the attack, he cursed the Seekers for royally fucking up his day.

After what felt like a small eternity, Sam was able to open his eyes without wanting to vomit. He glanced at the over-bed table and noted the items on the tray: oatmeal, toast, banana, applesauce, juice. He reached out and took the juice, sipping slowly. When his stomach didn’t rebel, he took a longer drink. When that still didn’t result in any nausea, Sam picked up a piece of toast and nibbled at it slowly until it was gone. The effort required to manage this simple task left him feeling exhausted, and he closed his eyes without bothering with the blankets. As it had earlier, sleep came to him swiftly and deeply.

* * *

When Sam woke up and interminable time later, the hospital ward was dark and quiet. The curtain had been pulled closed around his bed, and he was surprised to see that the tray had been removed and the blankets had been drawn over him. He hadn’t heard or felt a thing, that he could remember. Sam frowned, discomforted by the thought. When he pushed himself into a sitting position, he was pleased to realize that the pounding in his skull had receded to the point that he could accurately describe it as a headache. He glanced around the space, looking for a clock. He could tell by his pain level and clear mind that he must have slept for a while, but for how long exactly he could not say.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Ratchet materialized in front of him. Sam quirked a smile at the medic, “Keeping a close eye on me, Ratch?”

Rather than answer his question, the medic asked instead, “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good, actually. What time is it?”

“Oh-five-hundred hours.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose of their own accord, surprised by how long he had slept. The early hour made him think about the scouts, and he asked, “How’re Bee and Roddy?”

His question earned him an unimpressed snort, “Hot Rod is out of stasis, but I’ll put him right back in again if he doesn’t stop making a nuisance of himself. Bumblebee is in recharge, and he’ll be there for another cycle if he knows what’s good for him.”

Sam’s lips quirked in a smile, amused by the medic’s harried tone. Knowing Hot Rod, the scout was being a less than ideal patient.

“How long do I have to stay here?” He asked, changing the subject. It had been less than a day, and he was already anxious to get out of the ward and back to his apartment.

“I’ll discharge you this afternoon, if your condition continues to improve. I saw that you managed to eat something last night. Do you think you could eat some breakfast?”

“Yeah, definitely. I’m pretty hungry, actually.”

Ratchet nodded, “That’s encouraging. Let me take you to the bathroom, and then I’ll see about getting you something to eat.”

Once again, the holoform helped him down off the bed and across the hospital ward. When Sam glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror a short while later, he grimaced at the sight. The bruises on his face had darkened considerably overnight, and the cuts and scrapes had begun to scab over. Thankfully, he looked worse than he felt. After he had finished, Ratchet helped him back to bed, a trip he was able to achieve without any dizziness or nausea. Shortly thereafter, the hospital corpsman from the day before brought him a carbon copy of his previous meal. Sam smiled at the man in thanks, and tucked into his food, surprising himself by cleaning the plate. Ratchet watched him eat his meal in silence, his gaze clinical and assessing. After Sam had finished, the medic had him scoot to the edge of the bed so he could change the bandages on his face.

“You can take these off tonight before you go to bed. Be mindful of the sutures for the next few days.”

Sam hummed in acknowledgement, and Ratchet disposed of the soiled gauze.

“Alright, I’ll be back this afternoon. Get some rest.”

Sam frowned at him, “Ratchet, I just slept for like twelve hours. Can I have my phone or a book or something?”

“No, you’re to avoid screen time and cognitive strain for the next thirty-six hours.”

Sam stared at him blankly, “What am I supposed to do then? Just sit here?”

“I’d prefer you lay there, but the sentiment is essentially correct.”

Sam groaned, “Come _on_ Ratchet. There must be something I can do.”

The medic tilted his head at him, a perilous glint in his eye, “There is precisely nothing you can do, so oblige me and rest quietly.”

Sam huffed at him, but he recognized the unyielding iron of Ratchet’s temper when he saw it, so he acquiesced without further argument. The holoform gave him a long, warning look that said ‘_do not test my patience’_ as clearly as words, and then he disappeared.

Sam sat and stared at the ceiling in growing restlessness for hours. Sometime later, the lights in the hospital ward brightened, and the sound of a staff change filtered through the curtain around his bed—it was the highlight of his morning. Sometime after that, Adams stepped around the curtain and asked if he could eat. Sam shrugged and murmured an affirmative, and Adams disappeared around the curtain again. He sighed, closing his eyes in boredom.

“Are you paying attention?”

Sam blinked in confusion, reality abruptly shifting around him. He was sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, a meal tray in front of him and a fork in his hand. Ratchet was standing at the foot of his bed, a slightly impatient look on his face. Sam went cold in an instant, stiffening in alarm.

“Sam, what is it? What’s wrong?” Ratchet asked, sharply.

“What— when did you get here?” He managed, his voice strangled.

The look of irritation on Ratchet’s face was replaced with concern. He stepped around the bed towards him, “I arrived just after you started your lunch. I was in the process of explaining about post-concussion recovery in preparation for your discharge this afternoon. Look at me.”

Sam put down the fork, aware that his hands were shaking, and obliged. Ratchet stared at him intently, moving his finger across Sam’s field of vision, which he tracked without being prompted. The medic’s face turned down in a frown.

“I can find no evidence that your injuries have worsened. What was the last thing that you remember?”

“Adams had asked me whether I could eat, and I said yes.”

Ratchet tilted his head considerately, “That would have been approximately ten minutes ago.”

Sam blanched, horrified, “Is that normal?”

“Post-trauma memory loss is common. You have likely been experiencing it since the attack without realizing it. The effect will fade in time.”

Sam shuddered from head to toe, and Ratchet awkwardly squeezed his shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, Sam. I know it must be disconcerting, but you are making remarkable progress.”

“Thanks Ratchet.” He murmured, still discomforted but taking solace in the medic’s words. He glanced down at the tray as he picked up his fork again. Apparently, chicken curry was on the menu.

“I’ll begin again, as I doubt you have retained anything that I said. You will be discharged this afternoon. For the next twenty-four hours, you are to avoid the television, computer, and cellphone. As with this morning, you are to sleep or rest quietly. You can resume screen time and leisurely reading tomorrow afternoon. You are not to engage in any course work or strenuous exercise for the next three weeks. Do you understand?”

Sam nodded, “Yeah, I got it. No patrols, then?”

Ratchet snorted, “You will resume patrolling when you have made a full recovery and not before.”

“How long will that take?”

“It takes however long it takes. Anywhere from three weeks to three months.”

Sam grimaced but made no protest. Ratchet left shortly thereafter and he finished eating the rest of his meal, barely tasting a thing. He dozed on and off for the remainder of the afternoon, and he was nearly ready to climb the walls by the time Ratchet appeared at the foot of his bed and told him he was being discharged. Sam sat up quickly, relieved, and swung his legs over the side of the bed without a moment’s hesitation. They walked together back to his apartment, stopping periodically for Sam to catch his breath or wait out a dizzy spell. Eventually, he was sitting on his couch as Ratchet prowled around the room, gathering up books and papers and tucking them away by the computer.

“I’m serious, Sam. No schoolwork.”

“Yeah, I understand.”

The medic pinned him with a skeptical look, and Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m not stupid, Ratchet. I understand the rationale behind your instructions.”

To his surprise, the medic nodded in acquiescence.

“I’ll have a tray brought for you later this evening. Keep your cellphone on your person at all times; if you fall or pass out then press the panic button. I’ll keep a sensor trained on you for the next while.”

“Yeah sure, thanks Ratchet.”

The medic glanced around the room a final time and then nodded to him, disappearing without another word. For the first time in almost two days, Sam found himself blessedly alone.

_First things first_. He thought determinedly as he climbed to his feet and ambled towards the bedroom. He pulled out a pair of lounge pants and a shirt, sitting on the edge of the bed to take off the hospital gown and scrubs that he was wearing. After he was dressed, he walked to the bathroom and brushed his teeth, before washing his hands. When that was done, he walked back to the bed and laid down, pulling the throw blanket over him loosely.

He spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between sleeping on the bed and lying on the couch. As promised, Ratchet brought him his evening meal, and reminded him that he could take off the bandage before he fell asleep. Sam waved at the medic in appreciation, and walked back into his apartment. Ratchet had brought him a spread, evidentially unsure what Sam would prefer, and he ate until he couldn’t eat anymore—surprised by the voracity of his appetite. Sam fell asleep on the couch shortly thereafter, the throw blanket wrapped loosely around his shoulders. He slept until just after three in the morning, and then he was awake for the day. He lounged on the couch for an interminable time before he opted to have a shower and shave. When that was finished, he organized his paperback novels by color. What _that_ was finished, he organized his closet. He glanced at the clock in the living room.

3:54 AM.

Sam groaned. Twelve more hours.

He sat on his couch, drumming his fingers against the armrest as he watched the time pass. He must have dozed off or grayed out sometime after four, because suddenly it was 8:30 and his door was chiming. He stumbled to his feet, shaking away the disorientation he felt, and opened the door. To his surprise, Bumblebee’s holoform stood in the hallway, bearing his breakfast.

A genuine smile lit up Sam’s face, “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

Bee’s face brightened in amusement, “Good morning Sam, I’m well.” There was an expectant pause and then he prompted, “Can I come in?”

Sam blushed in embarrassment, stepping out of the doorway, “Of course, sorry. You took me by surprise.”

Bee set the tray on the coffee table, glancing around the space.

“Home sweet home.” Sam said dryly, and something softened on the scout’s face.

“I am pleased to hear you say it.” He murmured.

Sam lifted his shoulder in a self-conscious shrug, “Yeah, it’s grown on me.” He sat down on the couch, and pulled the tray into his lap.

“I hope Ratchet didn’t tear your head off.” Sam said after he was settled, a hint of apology in his voice. Bumblebee glanced at him with a sheepish expression on his face.

“He did not, but it was a near thing. He objected to my decision to utilize a holoform.”

“Why is it that Optimus and Ratchet use their holoforms, but none of you do? Well, besides Arcee, I mean.”

Bee tilted his head considerately, “Holoforms are energy-intensive, and we have precious little energon as it is. Optimus’ holoform is a necessity—it is the function of a Prime to lead, and that leadership occasionally requires it.”

Sam chuckled as he started in on his bagel, “Hard to sign a John Hancock with a servo.”

Bee inclined his head in acknowledgement, “True. He also visits with dignitaries who are intimidated by his bipedal form, and he uses the holoform as required to put them at ease.”

Sam quirked a smile, “Yeah, that sounds pretty much in character for him.”

“To my knowledge, Ratchet had never used a holoform before you arrived. He now has good cause to do so, however.”

Sam reflected on his first meeting with the holoform in the hospital ward, and suddenly Ratchet’s bad temper made a lot more sense.

“How’s Roddy?” Sam asked, pulling the foil off a yogurt cup. Peach, he noticed, his favorite.

“Back to his old self. Ratchet cleared him for return to duty last night.”

“That’s great!” Sam enthused, then glanced at the clock on the wall—8:44 AM. He looked at the scout in confusion, “Shouldn’t you be on patrol?”

Bee shrugged nonchalantly, “Roddy and Cliff took shift.”

Sam could hear the words that went unspoken by the scout: _So I could stay with you._ He smiled affectionately.

“Thanks, Bee, I appreciate the breakfast. I wasn’t sure whether Ratchet would want me to go to the mess hall myself.”

“Certainly not.” Bee replied, “Ratchet has made it exceedingly clear that you aren’t to stop foot outside this apartment until after lunch.”

“I’m feeling a lot better.” Sam said with a shrug, “No dizziness or nausea since yesterday afternoon. I’m sleeping a lot, though.”

Bee hummed in a way that implied he was aware of the fact. “Ratchet will be pleased.”

The scout’s eyes suddenly narrowed, his gaze locked onto the side of Sam’s face. Sam blinked at him, surprised, “What, something on my face?”

“Your sutures.” Bee replied, as though that explained everything.

Sam raised a hand and touched the tidy row of stiches at his hairline, shrugging, “Yeah, there’s sixteen. I’ve never had stiches before—another thing I can cross off my injury bucket list. If I break a bone, I’ll have Bingo.”

Bee visibly winced at his words, and Sam grinned in response.

“What’s the word around base?” He asked curiously, changing the subject, “I miss anything interesting?”

Bumblebee shook his head, clearly exasperated by Sam’s nonchalance but willing to change the subject, “Nothing since the attack. Optimus increased patrols to every four hours and doubled the number of sentries around the base. It was a challenge to get the fuel tanker blaze under control, but Wheeljack was able to develop a fire suppressant that did the job.”

“Any news about the vote?”

“Not yet, it’s still under debate, although Optimus seems optimistic. The vote will take place after the debate has been concluded—probably later today.”

“That long?”

Bee shrugged, “The Representatives have a lot to say on the matter.”

“They shouldn’t. Transformers were on this planet before humankind was even bipedal.”

“I assure you, Earth’s heads of state do not see it that way.” Bumblebee replied amusedly.

The scout stayed and talked with him for hours, for which Sam was intensely grateful. The time passed much more quickly in his presence than not. It was just after noon when Ratchet’s holoform materialized in his living room, not bothering with the doorbell.

“Please, come in.” Sam said sarcastically, after he recovered from his surprise.

The medic huffed, and replied, “How are you feeling?”

“Good.” Sam said with a shrug, “Slept well, had a big breakfast. No nausea, no dizziness. I think I lost some time early this morning, but nothing to write home about.”

Ratchet hummed considerately and moved to stand in front of him. He once again drew his finger across Sam’s field of vision and then had Sam squeeze his hands.

“Pupils equal and reactive, tracking properly. Good forearm muscular strength. No fever, no swelling. How is your head?”

Sam lifted his shoulder in a shrug, “I have a bit of a headache, but it’s barely noticeable. It gets bothersome if I’m on my feet too long, but nothing like yesterday.”

Ratchet stared at him a long time before he said, “You’re recovering more quickly than I anticipated.”

Something about the medic’s tone made it sound as though that were a bad thing.

“What does that mean?” Sam asked, suddenly defensive.

“I’m not sure. It may mean nothing.”

“May mean nothing? So it may mean something?”

Ratchet looked at him considerately, as though trying to decide what to say. Sam narrowed his eyes at the medic warningly, and Ratchet seemed to come to a decision.

“I would have expected you to be in this condition in a week, perhaps less. It is possible that you have an unnaturally thick skull that protected you from more severe injuries—my experience would certainly support this hypothesis.”

Sam opened his mouth to deliver a blistering reply, but Ratchet cut him off.

“Or it could be that you are healing quickly. Preternaturally quickly.”

Sam’s mouth closed with a snap, his lips turning down hard.

“The Allspark energy?” He hazarded a guess, and Ratchet shrugged.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. I do not have enough data to formulate a theory. Perceptor’s scan on the airfield revealed a signature trace that was stronger than the one my scans found—though not significantly so. It is possible that it was an anomaly—“

“Or it’s getting worse.” Sam finished, grimly.

“Or it’s getting stronger.” Ratchet corrected, “That doesn’t necessarily mean worse. After your three-week recuperation, I will complete another scan and compare the readings. With any luck, that will provide some answers.”

Sam was silent for a long moment and then he shrugged resignedly, “Well, it’s not like there’s anything we can do about it anyway.”

His words seem to take Ratchet aback, and Sam clarified good-naturedly, “What can I say? I have a good therapist. I’ve worked my way through denial, anger, bargaining, and depression—I’m all aboard the acceptance train.”

Ratchet straightened with a sardonic quirk of his lips, “I am glad to hear it. Regardless of the cause, you have recovered enough to resume screen time and light exercise. No coursework for another three weeks.”

“Thank God, I thought I was going to save Megatron the trouble and die of boredom.”

Ratchet’s countenance narrowed in disapproval, but before he could reply, his expression shifted into one of surprise. He glanced at Bumblebee, whose expression was one of delighted disbelief.

Sam looked between the two holoforms, “What? What is it?”

Bee grinned at him in growing excitement.

“The vote about Diego Garcia was just passed by the general assembly, 155-to-28. We are officially a member of the United Nations.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bayverse movies drive me crazy for many reasons, but one of the main ones is the way the United States orders the Autobots to leave the planet like they own the place (you'd be welcome in Canada, guys!). Well I have happily ret-conned that nonsense, and now they're officially citizens.
> 
> Also, in case you're wondering: Sam gave Ratchet The Feels™ and the grouchy old medic didn't know how to process it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a broken record, but thank-you all so much for commenting, subscribing, and leaving kudos. The last chapter was difficult to write, and it was enormously encouraging to receive your feedback. 
> 
> Shout-out to luminare_ardua whose thoughtful comment I incorporated into this chapter.

Sam stared at the scout in disbelief.

“It _passed_?” He asked incredulously, “Formally?”

“Formally.” Bee confirmed, obviously delighted by Sam’s reaction.

Sam was blindsided by the tidal wave of emotions that rocked into him—shock, relief, _joy_. He dropped his head into hands in an effort to get himself under control. Ever since he had learned that he had been denaturalized, Sam had struggled with his sense of identity. No longer a citizen of any nation on Earth, but still human. A ward of Cybertron, but entirely _other_—nothing like the Transformers who claimed him, despite the Allspark energy radiating from his cells. Now at least, he had a tangible connection to the planet that he called home, which was both legislatively binding and globally recognized.

After a moment, Bee chirped at him concernedly.

“I just need a minute, Bee.” He assured the scout, his voice unsteady. He took a deep breath, and then another, before he was capable of speaking. He looked up at the two holoforms, clasping his hands together.

“I wasn’t sure it would pass. I’m so relieved.” He admitted.

Bumblebee smiled at him understandingly, but Ratchet spoke before the scout could reply.

“It will be a lot of work and unnecessary bureaucracy, in my opinion, but I can understand the appeal it holds for you.”

Sam glanced at the medic, taken aback by his dismissive tone before understanding dawned on him. “That’s right, you were a senator before the war. I guess you’d know a thing or two about bureaucracy.”

Ratchet snorted, “Don’t remind me. The grandstanding and corruption of American politics pales in comparison to the Cybertronian Senate during the height of the Golden Age.”

“I can only imagine.” 

Ratchet crossed his arms, his features pulling down in a seriously put-upon expression.

“You will find out for yourself shortly. Prime has requested that his senior staff report to the command center immediately. Against my better judgment, his request includes you.” Ratchet gave him a long, appraising look before he continued, “Bumblebee will walk with you; turn around at once if your dizziness returns.”

With that, the holoform fizzled and vanished. Sam glanced at his guardian quizzically.

“I’m senior staff now?”

Bee smiled at him and shrugged, “You are our Ambassador and Prime’s ward.”

Sam grimaced at the scout, who winced apologetically and said, “We should go, they will be waiting on us.”

“Give me a minute to get dressed.” Sam said, pushing himself to his feet. He walked briskly to his closet and pulled out the first pair of slacks and shirt he saw. Less than five minutes later, he was dressed and striding towards the North Quad door, pulling his lanyard around his neck as he walked. Bumblebee kept pace beside him, glancing sidelong at him in obvious concern.

“I’m fine, Bee.” He huffed, “Never better.”

“You don’t look it.” The scout replied uncertainly.

“Bee, are you saying I look like shit?” He asked, with a quirk of his lips.

The scout snorted in a decidedly Ratchet-like fashion, and Sam grinned at him in earnest. It was less than ten minutes later when Sam stepped through the North Quad door as Bee’s holoform vanished from beside him. He smiled at the sight of the sleek Camaro waiting in the bridge. The driver’s side door popped open as he approached, and Sam ran a palm over the yellow exterior.

“Hey Bee.” He murmured affectionately, as though he hadn’t spent all morning with the scout. Bumblebee pulled the driver’s door against him, ushering him into the cab. Sam complied, climbing into the driver’s seat without complaint. As soon as he was seated, the door closed shut behind him and the scout accelerated towards the West Quad. Bee’s radio flickered to life, and the sound of good-natured comm chatter spilled into the cab.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, en route.//_ The scout reported, dutifully.

_//Sam-my-man, glad you’re back!//_ Hot Rod’s cheery voice replied. Sam smiled affectionately at the dashboard.

“You too, Roddy.”

_//He’s not back yet.//_ Ratchet cut-in peevishly, _//So don’t go making any plans.//_

_//Me? Perish the thought.//_

_//Hot Rod.//_ Ratchet said, warningly.

_//Cross my spark.//_

_//Hot Rod!// _

_//Primus, Ratchet, calm down. You’ll give yourself a spark-attack.// _

There was an unflattering burst of angry-sounding Cybertronian in response, but Sam could barely hear it over the sound of his own laughter. He was still grinning when Bumblebee rolled to a stop by the stairs of the metal scaffolding in the command room a short while later. Sam climbed out of the cab and started up the steps as Bumblebee transformed. Hot Rod jogged over by the time he had made it to the top of the stairs.

“Hey Roddy.” Sam smiled at the scout earnestly, and Roddy whistled in return.

“Hello Sam.” The scout said, leaning close, “Forgive me for saying so, but you look… mottled.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “Thanks buddy, I appreciate it.”

“Do not be concerned by your appearance. It is no more or less strange than usual.” Sunstreaker said dismissively, from his spot beside Sideswipe at the table. Something about his tone raised Sam’s hackles, and he narrowed his eyes at the mechanoid. Sam had spent little time around the yellow warrior, but that time had been sufficient to underscore the fact that (somehow) Sideswipe was the congenial twin. Sunstreaker was vain and abrasive on a good day, and a self-righteous prick on a bad one.

“_You’re_ telling _me_ not to be concerned about my appearance?” Sam snorted, “Pretty bold, coming from a Maserati.” 

Sunstreaker stiffened in affront, but Roddy laughed delightedly before the warrior could respond.

“Props Sam.” Hot Rod said approvingly. Sideswipe murmured something to his twin in Cybertronian, and the yellow Autobot turned around without another word. Sam’s attention was pulled away then by the arrival of Dave and Will. He turned and smiled at the two men as they stepped onto the platform.

“Sam, how are you feeling?” Dave asked concernedly as he approached.

“You look like shit.” Will said in his usual succinct manner. Sam rolled his eyes, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“Thanks Will, very helpful.”

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Dave continued uncertainly.

“I look worse than I feel.”

Before Dave could say anything else, Optimus stepped up to the Autobot-sized conference table in the center of the space, Prowl at his right-hand side. The room fell silent by fits and starts, and the three of them stepped up to the railing as they waited for him to speak.

“By now you will all have heard that the vote by the General Assembly was passed in our favor.” The Autobot leader began, stately and dignified, “With the passing of the vote, Diego Garcia has officially been recognized by the governments of this world as a Member State of the United Nations—and we as citizens of this planet.”

Sam felt a shiver run down his spine at the Prime’s auspicious tone.

“This is an opportunity for our people to find on Earth something of the home we lost on Cybertron. To find kinship and belonging, here among our human allies, and to begin the process of recovery and recuperation.” He paused, his piercing blue optics moving around the room, “So too is this a grave responsibility. It is our duty to ensure that the war that tore apart our planet does not infect this one, any more than it already has. Megatron will view the passing of this motion as an insult to his perceived superiority. I fully expect that he will retaliate against the humans—and against us—in response. With his command trine here on Earth, he has the capacity to cause terrible destruction. We must be vigilant.”

“In the coming weeks and months, we will work to strengthen the ties with our human allies.” Prowl continued, “We have already begun negotiations with the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom, and China. As part of these negotiations, we are drafting cooperative agreements and political and commercial treaties. Prime has also ratified the United Nations Charter, the Geneva Convention, the Vienna Convention, and the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change.”

“Have you signed an extradition treaty with the United States?” Will asked abruptly, interrupting the strategist. Sam glanced at him, surprised to see the tightness in his jaw.

“No, Will, nor do I intend to.” Optimus replied solemnly.

Will worked his jaw for a moment before nodding silently at the Autobot leader. Sam looked at him confusedly, but the older man stared straight ahead, avoiding his questioning gaze. 

“Over the next several months, I will be receiving Ambassadors from various Member States of the United Nations. I have given orders for Administrative Building 22 to be converted into an embassy for their use and convenience. The United States Ambassador will be first to arrive, later next week. Her Excellency will be afforded every courtesy during her stay.”

Sam frowned, shifting uneasily, “Is that safe?”

Brilliant blue optics met apprehensive brown eyes.

“The Ambassadors and their governments have been informed of the potential for a Decepticon attack. Every precaution will be taken to ensure the safety of the visiting dignitaries.” Optimus glanced at his second-in-command, and Prowl stepped forward as he began to outline the security measures being implemented on the island. First, he described changes to shift rotations, patrol movements, and sentry details, and then Wheeljack was speaking, describing his efforts at developing an improved Energon-detection grid. The engineer was creating a complicated buoy system to place around the island that would give them an additional warning about an incoming attack. Unless (the engineer clarified, worrying his servos together) they used trans-dimensional warp capabilities to teleport to the island, as they had three days ago.

Sam blinked slowly, leaning against the railing as Wheeljack talked, on and on about engineering specifications and equipment modifications. He felt the first stirrings of a headache, and he winced his eyes closed as he raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes an interminable time later, he jerked in surprise to see that Wheeljack was nowhere in sight. Ironhide was standing in the engineer’s place, a three-dimensional holographic projection of the island floating above the table. The weapon’s specialist was speaking gruffly, something about perimeter defense.

Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat as he realized that he had lost time again. Simultaneously, Ratchet and Bumblebee looked in his direction. His guardian’s optics were bright with sudden concern, whereas Ratchet’s optics were narrowed in consideration. Sam stepped close to Bumblebee, pitching his voice low.

“How long ago was Wheeljack talking about the buoys?” He asked, his voice tight with anxiety. The scout’s optics brightened in sudden understanding.

“Not long, perhaps five minutes.” His guardian assured him, and something inside Sam slowly unclenched. Only five minutes, that wasn’t so bad. He exhaled softly, wrapping his hands around the metal railing of the scaffold.

“What’s he talking about?” Sam asked after a moment, motioning to Ironhide with his chin.

“He is outlining the improvements that he and Kup have made to perimeter defense by the munitions depot.” Bumblebee informed him, quiet and concise, “You haven’t missed anything of significance.”

Sam made a noncommittal sound in acknowledgement, turning his attention back to the weapon’s specialist. When Ironhide finished speaking, the holographic projection disappeared and the house lights came up. Evidentially, the briefing was over. He glanced over at Dave and Will, who had similar thoughtful expressions on their faces.

“Have you been working on this, Dave?” Sam asked the personal aid in genuine curiosity, gesturing vaguely towards the conference table. The agent crooked a smile at him.

“Yeah, for months now. We started the paperwork for the petition to the Secretary-General before you arrived at Diego Garcia.”

Sam shook his head wryly, “Well, congratulations. Seems like your work paid off.”

Dave laughed lightly, “I had almost nothing to do with it. Optimus has a team of policy analysts who wrote up the majority of the petition. I just made sure the T’s got crossed and the I’s got dotted.”

“You are being modest, Dave. I could not have done it without you.” Optimus chided as he and Ratchet approached. The agent inclined his head, graciously accepting the praise. Optimus looked from Dave to Sam, his optics searching.

“How are you feeling, Sam?”

He felt a flash of irritation at the now too familiar, unwelcome question.

“I’m fine, Optimus.” He assured the Autobot leader, his voice sharper than he intended.

“How much time did you lose?” Ratchet asked, pointed and knowing. Sam didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing.

“Five minutes.” He replied casually.

Optimus looked at him for a long moment, as though trying to come to a decision. Ratchet glanced at his leader meaningfully, and Prime inclined his head slightly in response. Sam realized abruptly that they were communicating over a private comm line.

“Ratchet has informed me that you are recuperating well. I am pleased to hear it.”

Sam tilted his head at the Autobot leader. He could hear the caveat hanging at the end of that sentence as loudly as a foghorn. He looked at Optimus expectantly.

“And? Or But?”

Something warmed in Optimus’ optics.

“But you’re on medical stand-down for the next three weeks, and therefore will not be participating in the visit of the American delegation.”

Optimus’ tone was reassuring, rather than proclamative, but Sam found himself conflicted by unexpected emotions. On one hand, he had no interest in playing Ambassador for an alien species. He was woefully underqualified, for one, and lacked any sort of social grace for another. Yet Sam found that Optimus’ words rankled him, and he felt a flash of contrarianism.

“Yeah, that makes sense. Standing and talking are obviously beyond my abilities right now.”

Optimus looked taken aback by his sarcasm. “I was not aware that you had changed your mind about your role as our Ambassador.”

Sam huffed, feeling as though he were painting himself into a corner.

“I haven’t, not really, but it’s not like I’m physically incapable of attending.” He frowned, trying to put his objection into words, “If I don’t meet with them, it will be because that was my choice, not because of Ratchet’s say-so.”

If the look on the medic’s face was anything to go by, he very much disagreed with Sam’s assessment of the situation. Optimus directed a pointed and quelling look at his Chief Medical Officer, and then glanced back to Sam.

“Do you want to meet them?” Optimus asked considerately, and the directness of the question caught him off-guard. Sam surprised himself by answering candidly.

“Do I want to meet them? No. Do I feel obligated to meet them? Yeah, obviously.”

Optimus tilted his head questioningly, and Sam sighed.

“Come on, Optimus, the psychology isn’t that complicated. The last time you asked me, I turned you down and it got you killed. I owe you.”

Optimus’ optics widened slightly in surprise, before his expression grew troubled. Dave and Will exchanged a significant glance and surreptitiously withdrew, leaving Sam alone with the three Autobots. 

“You owe me nothing, Sam.” Optimus rumbled reassuringly, “Least of all, this.”

“Yeah, I remember, thrice-indebted.” Sam said, frustrated by his inability to articulate himself clearly, “But you saved me too, alright? The weight of that obligation swings both ways.”

Optimus’ helm jerked back slightly, and the Autobot leader looked at Sam as though seeing him for the first time. The weight of his regard made Sam flush with emotion, but he did not look away. After a long, charged moment, the Autobot leader inclined his helm.

“I will respect your choice in this matter, Sam. Unless your physical wellbeing prevents it, you may participate in the delegation’s visit at your discretion—as much or as little as you desire.”

Sam glanced at Ratchet, expecting a blistering protest from the medic. Instead, he found that Ratchet was looking at Optimus with a gravity of expression that he could not decipher. In the absence of an objection, Sam shrugged in acknowledgement. Optimus nodded at him and then turned on his pede and walked towards Prowl and Ultra Magnus. Ratchet lingered a moment longer, before he followed his leader.

Sam watched them go, breathing a gusty sigh that he had not realized that he had been holding. He glanced at his guardian, who was staring back at him with bright optics.

“What did I just do?” He asked, mildly.

Bee chirped at him affectionately, “You followed your conscience.” 

Sam sighed, pushing his hands into his pockets, “Yeah well, my conscience better know what it’s doing.”

* * *

The following week passed by in fits and starts.

The mood on the base was jovial, following Optimus’ senior staff meeting. Dave and Will cornered Sam before he left the command center, and asked him whether he wanted to grab lunch to celebrate. Seeing no reason why not, Sam agreed. Together they drove to the Hall, Sam with Bumblebee and Dave and Will with Ironhide. They weren’t three feet inside of the building before Sam’s phone buzzed with an incoming text message.

_Ratchet: No alcohol._

_SamWitwicky: it’s 1 in the afternoon._

_Ratchet: It’s five o’clock somewhere. No alcohol._

Sam rolled his eyes at the phone as they crossed the airy dining room. They found a table next to a large window, which overlooked the road and part of the parking lot. As they sat down, Sam caught sight of Bumblebee and Ironhide, who had parked not far away.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.”

Sam glanced up in surprise to see Williams crossing the room towards them. There was an open and friendly expression on the soldier’s face, and Sam awkwardly moved over to make room for him to sit.

“No problem, we haven’t ordered yet.” Lennox said, leaning back in his chair.

“Hey Sam.” Williams smiled at him as he sat down, “How’ve you been?”

Sam blinked at the man in surprise. He knew that Williams had transferred to NEST in September, but he hadn’t seen him since the Theodore Roosevelt.

“I’m good.” He said, taken aback by his casual manner, “How’ve you been?”

Williams shrugged, “Good, though I was in the western quadrant when Starscream blew the fuel tanker. That was quite the education.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head.

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

They talked over wings and waffle fries for over an hour before Dave announced that he had to be getting back. Lennox sighed, tossing his napkin on the table, and echoed the sentiment. The four of them stood together and made their way to the front of the Hall where they waited as the host swiped their badges, and then they stepped into the hot mid-afternoon sun. Sam was halfway back to the Hive before he realized that Robin hadn’t asked him about his injuries. The knowledge made him smile in appreciation.

Sam slept a lot over the following days. He was often asleep by seven or eight in the evening, and slept through until morning—something he hadn’t experienced since before he had left for Princeton. He also found himself nodding off in the afternoons, whether on his couch, in Bee’s cab, or once, during a senior staff meeting. He woke up to the feeling of Will’s elbow jabbing into his ribs, yelping in surprise. To his intense mortification, the sound had drawn Optimus’ (and the room’s) attention. Blushing crimson to the roots of his hair, Sam stammered an apology and then spent the remainder of the briefing slouched low in his chair, wishing the floor would swallow him alive. 

Three days before the American delegation was due to arrive, Sam asked Dave to speak with him privately. The agent had agreed, and so Sam found himself sitting across from Dave in the agent’s office in South Quad, trying not to fidget.

“Can you give me a crash course on not making an asshole of myself?”

Dave blinked at him in surprise, before leaning back in his chair.

“Come again?”

Sam huffed in embarrassed frustration, “The American delegation is arriving on Thursday, and I think I’m going to meet them. I have no idea what to say or do.”

Something softened on the agent’s face, and Dave leaned forward.

“Prime isn’t expecting anything from you, Sam. Just be yourself.”

“Yeah, well, myself is an awkward nineteen-year-old who tends to put a foot in it. I don’t want to humiliate myself. Or Optimus.” Sam admitted.

Dave looked at him considerately.

“There’s really not much to it, Sam. The current United States Ambassador is Kelly Craft. You should refer to her as Her Excellency or Madam Ambassador. She’s a Republican with a longstanding history with international diplomacy. She served as Ambassador to Canada for years before she was appointed as the United Nations representative. Her job is to represent the interests of her country, including sowing the seeds for peaceful cooperation between the United States and Diego Garcia. Fifty percent of diplomacy is smiling and nodding, the other fifty percent is statecraft. No one expects you to be an expert in the finer points of statesmanship, Sam, so just be friendly and polite.”

“What’s she like? Personally?”

Dave shrugged, “She’s Republican, so there’s that. As you know, her party has been conflicted on human-Autobot relations over the last two years, although she herself has not spoken against us. Personally? She seems intelligent and capable.”

Sam sat back, shifting in his chair.

“So that’s it? Be polite?”

Dave shrugged, “Diplomacy is nuanced and layered, Sam. It’s not something that can be explained, you have to learn it as you go. Just remember that you’re not alone in this. Ambassador Craft has her team, and you’ll have yours.”

Sam groaned, shaking his head minutely.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

Sam echoed those same words three days later, on the morning of the arrival of the American delegation. Freshly showered and shaved, he stood in front of his closet staring disapprovingly at his clothing. His first inclination was to wear something business casual, but he dismissed that notion out of hand. He knew that Optimus was rolling out the red carpet, and he didn’t want to rock up to the reception in khakis and a button-down shirt.

_What would Dave Carter do?_

He knew the answer immediately. Sighing in resignation, Sam pulled the garment bag out from the back of the closet and laid it on the bed. Unzipping it, Sam saw it contained a dark blue suit, with clean lines and sharp seams. The garment bag also contained a white button-down shirt and a steel blue tie. Sam got dressed slowly, feeling ridiculous and uncomfortable as he did so. He couldn’t remember the last time he wore a suit—no, that wasn’t true. It was his Aunt Emily’s funeral, three years ago.

God, he hoped this wasn’t going to be a similar occasion.

After he was dressed, Sam glanced at himself in the wardrobe mirror, unsurprised to find that the suit fit him perfectly. He stared at the tie in his hands, trying desperately to remember what his father had taught him. After a few abortive attempts, he managed a shitty-looking simple knot. Sam was in the process of tying his ridiculously expensive-looking leather shoes when his door chimed. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see it was already ten in the morning.

He jogged towards the door, pulling it open with more force than necessary. Dave Carter stood in the hallway beyond, wearing a sharp-looking black suit that was grades above his usual business attire. Dave’s eyebrows rose to his hairline when he saw him, and Sam found himself reddening in embarrassment.

“Can I come in?” The personal assistant asked, and Sam stepped aside without a word.

Dave walked into his living space, and smiled at him approvingly.

“I’m glad the suit fits.” He said, and then his mouth did something complicated.

“What?” Sam asked, warily.

Dave hesitated.

“Want me to re-tie that for you?” He asked, gesturing towards his necktie. Sam’s eyes winced shut, and he nodded. The personal aid stepped forward, smart fingers untying the silk material and pulling it off him. Dave popped the collar of his shirt, and then draped the tie around his neck. His hands looped and tugged, and then he smoothed the tie and pulled down his collar.

“There you go.” He said approvingly, and Sam murmured his thanks. Dave looked him over once and nodded, satisfied, before he pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to him. Sam glanced down curiously at the small cube-shaped jewelry box. He popped it open to see a lapel pin in the shape of the Autobot insignia staring back at him. He recognized the pin immediately, as it was the same one that Dave wore affixed to his suit at all times.

He glanced up at the agent, who crooked a smile at him with a shrug.

“May as well make it official.”

Sam stared at the insignia for a long moment, before he tugged it from the jewelry box and pinned it to his lapel. He tried to ignore his racing heart as he glanced at the agent.

“Alright, we going?”

Dave nodded, “They’re due to arrive in thirty-five minutes. Weather out of New Delhi was rough, and they were delayed.”

Sam sighed internally, steeling himself up.

“Let’s go.”

Dave and Sam walked together towards the North Quad door, the agent talking the entire time.

“Ambassador Craft has a team with her, including personal assistants, a security detail, and the White House press.” Dave glanced at him sidelong, “There will be a photographer.”

Sam’s head snapped around so quickly that he almost gave himself whiplash.

“A _photographer?” _He repeated, aghast.

Dave shrugged, “It’s politics Sam, there’s always a photographer. Pretend like he’s not there.”

Sam struggled with the impulse to turn around and walk straight back to his apartment. He might have done so, had they not stepped onto the bridge to the sight of Bumblebee waiting in his alt mode. The Camaro flashed his high beams at him and popped open both of his doors. Sam grimaced and climbed into the cab. As soon as he and Dave were seated, the doors closed shut behind them and Bumblebee’s radio flared to life.

_//Bumblebee reporting in with Sam and Dave. We are on our way to the runway.//_

_//Ironhide and Lennox, reporting in at the airfield.//_

Lennox’s voice cut across the comm channel a second later.

_//Optimus, the Lancers are prepped. Do you want a full deployment?//_

_//Stand by, Will.//_ Prowl answered immediately, _//We need to clear the runway of local fauna.//_

_//Curse these pit-spawned fragging crustaceans!//_ Kup barked angrily.

It was less than ten minutes later when Bumblebee rolled to a stop at the end of the runway. The reception was markedly different from the one that Optimus had assembled to receive the _Trion_ and the _Ark._ Rather than a full military deployment, only Optimus, Prowl, and Ultra Magnus stood waiting at the tarmac. Beside them, Sam could see a cluster of humans, including Will Lennox, and a number of sleek-looking black SUVS. In the distance were two rows of soldiers, perhaps twenty in total, standing at attention in full uniform. Sam glanced at the dashboard in confusion.

“Where is everyone, Bee?”

The scout chirped at him reassuringly before speaking, “Full military reception is often associated with dictatorships on your planet, an image Optimus does not want to present. The delegation will meet with a number of us over the next two days, in staggered intervals.”

Sam nodded slowly, glancing in Bee’s rearview mirror. The bruises on his face had almost completely faded over the last week, much to Ratchet’s consternation—there was no longer any doubt that he was healing faster than normal. Sam hadn’t admitted to anyone, not even Bumblebee, how much the knowledge unsettled him.

Sam and Dave climbed out of the cab, and Bumblebee rolled back several feet and transformed. Sam tugged his suit jacket down, smoothing it back into place, and followed Dave as he approached the assembled group. He was immediately glad that he had erred on the side of caution and wore the suit, because all of the humans present were smartly dressed, either full service uniforms or formal business attire. Optimus turned as they approached, his optics lingering on Sam for a long moment. The quiet approval on the Autobot leader’s face made him flush in embarrassment.

“Hey Sam, welcome to the party.” Lennox greeted, stepping towards them.

“Hey Will.” He greeted, glancing around the airfield, “How long until they land?”

“The plane is making its final approach now. They’ll be on the ground in ten minutes.” Prowl answered.

“Any sign of the Decepticons?”

“Nothing so far, but we are on high alert.” The strategist replied.

As promised, it was only a few moments later before Sam could make out the sleek white aircraft as it made its approach. The C-37A jet touched down smoothly, and taxied towards them before coming to a complete stop on the tarmac. Sam felt his heart start to pound inside his chest, and he took a calming breath. He had faced down Megatron, twice. He could handle a middle-aged dignitary.

Probably.

It was the space of several minutes before the door to the jet was opened and lowered to the tarmac, and then the delegation was making its way down the steps towards them. First came two serious-looking men in dark suits with coiled earpieces. They were followed by the Ambassador, which Sam recognized from the dossier Dave had provided him. She was an attractive older woman, with short-cut blonde hair and a razor-sharp skirt suit. She was followed by a younger woman carrying an attache case and an armful of folders. Three others trailed behind them, one carrying a large equipment bag and a camera.

Sam carefully schooled his features into a polite, neutral expression.

Optimus stepped forward to greet her, inclining his head gravely before lowering to one knee. The position would have seemed submissive by anyone else, but Prime maintained an air of stately dignity.

“Your Excellency, welcome to Diego Garcia. I am Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots.”

Craft inclined her head in return, a professional smile warming her face.

“Thank-you for receiving us, Optimus Prime. It is my honor to be here.”

“The honor is ours.” He intoned solemnly, and Sam realized distantly that Optimus Prime was one suave motherfucker. He snapped back to attention as Optimus gestured with a large servo towards him.

“It is my pleasure to introduce our Ambassador, Sam Witwicky.”

As if on autopilot, Sam stepped forward and took the Ambassador’s proffered hand, shaking it firmly.

“Your Excellency, I am pleased to finally meet you.” He replied, distantly aware of the snap of a camera.

She smiled at him brightly, “Please, your Excellency, call me Ambassador Craft.”

Something possessed him to reply in the same friendly tone, “Then you must call me Ambassador Witwicky.”

She inclined her head in warm acquiescence, and then Optimus was motioning to Lennox.

“This is Major William Lennox, head of the human contingent of NEST.”

Will snapped off a crisp salute, and then stepped forward to shake Craft’s hand.

“Your Excellency, welcome to Diego Garcia.”

She inclined her head graciously, and Optimus stood, gesturing next to Prowl.

“This is Prowl, my second-in-command and Chief Strategist.”

The Autobot crossed his arm across his chassis and bowed deeply from the waist. Optimus gestured then to Ultra Magnus.

“This is Ultra Magnus, my Chief Lieutenant and City Commander. He will be responsible for your safety during your stay.”

Ultra Magnus bowed at the waist as Prowl had, and the Ambassador smiled collegially.

“Thank-you all for this warm reception. I look forward to developing a relationship of mutual trust and prosperity between our peoples.”

Optimus inclined his helm once again, “As do I.”

After the reception, Sam accompanied the Ambassador as she toured Diego Garcia. The tour was kept close to the base, mainly the downtown area and Simpson Point. The Ambassador was flawless in her diplomacy, hitting all of the social graces with no apparent effort. Sam was friendly and polite, but kept quiet unless the Ambassador asked him a direct question. Dave did the majority of the speaking, repeating the same speech that he had given Sam when he had first arrived at Diego Garcia. Unlike Sam’s tour, however, Dave led them through several of the buildings he showed them—most notably the now re-purposed Embassy. Afterwards, they had lunch at the Officer’s Club, an upscale dining facility located by the water. 

Sam noted with curiosity that Dave did not take the Ambassador to see the Hive.

Over the following two days, Sam participated in a smattering of meetings, discussions, and meals with the Ambassador and her delegation, including introductions with some of the other Autobots. As Dave had predicted, diplomacy was a lot of smiling and nodding. The one awkward moment of the visit occurred when the Ambassador asked him about Tranquility over lunch, and Sam had frozen in surprise. She recognized her slip-up immediately, and gracefully changed the subject before he could stammer a response. It was no time at all before the delegation had wrapped up and the Ambassador’s jet was taxing back down the runway.

Sam breathed out a sigh of relief when the jet disappeared into the distance. Bumblebee crouched beside him, running a digit down the length of his spine. He looked at the scout with a half-smile.

“That was exhausting.” He admitted.

“You did well.” Bumblebee praised.

Sam laughed self-deprecatingly, “Dave did all the work. I just tagged along.”

“I think you know that’s not true.” Optimus rumbled from beside him, and Sam glanced up at the Autobot leader in surprise, “You did well, Sam. You should be pleased.”

Sam felt himself flush at the quiet praise in the Autobot’s voice.

“Thanks Optimus. It wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be.”

Optimus’ mouth plates curved up in an amused smile, “I am glad to hear it.”

Bumblebee stepped back and transformed into his alt mode, rolling forward to press his bumper against his legs. Unbalanced, Sam sat back against the car with a laugh, patting the hood affectionately. Bumblebee’s engine rumbled loudly in response. Optimus watched the two of them with an intensity of expression that Sam couldn’t place. He smiled up at the Autobot questioningly, but Optimus merely inclined his head in valediction and transformed into his alt mode. Sam watched in bewilderment as the Autobot leader accelerated away, driving back towards the base in silence. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all of your support, folks. I would have stopped writing a long time ago if not for all of your wonderful feedback. It is sincerely appreciated.
> 
> **Chapter Warning**: Graphic depictions of violence
> 
> Also, just a friendly reminder that this is not a bot!Sam or a mech!Sam story. Sam is and will remain human.

The remaining two weeks of Sam’s recovery passed by well enough.

The Canadian delegation, including Ambassador Blanchard arrived a week before classes were set to begin. As with Ambassador Craft, Blanchard was afforded every courtesy on his visit. Dave had drilled Sam relentlessly on the proper pronunciation of the Ambassador’s name (_Blan-char, _not_ Blanch-erd) _for days before his arrival. As with the US Ambassador, Sam attended meetings, presentations, and meals with Blanchard, who was more talkative and less formal than Ambassador Craft. For his part, Sam found the older man to be exceedingly polite, though he had some trouble understanding the dignitary’s heavy Québécois accent.

After the Canadian delegation had departed, Sam began to spend more and more time with Optimus. It started slowly at first, without Sam even realizing it. Once the jet bearing the Canadian delegation had left their airspace, Sam returned to base with the Autobot leader. As they drove, Optimus once again expressed his appreciation for all of the work that he had put in over the last two days. Sam pulled at his tie, loosening it from around his neck, and smiled at the dashboard.

“Thanks, Optimus. It wasn’t so bad, he was a nice guy.”

Optimus rumbled in agreement.

“Ambassador Blanchard is a vocal supporter of human-Autobot relations, as is the Canadian Prime Minister.”

Sam regarded the dash with open curiousity and asked, “Have you met him?”

“Prime Minister Trudeau? Not in person, but we have spoken by telephone.”

Sam huffed in amusement. The idea of Optimus Prime, a millions-of-years-old impossibly intelligent alien figurehead, having a friendly chat over a phone line was incongruous to the extreme.

“Have you talked to many heads of state?”

“Some. President Davis and I speak frequently on matters pertaining to NEST. I have also spoken with President Obrador of Mexico, President Putin of Russia, Prime Minister Abe of Japan, and Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth.”

Sam jerked back in surprise.

“You talked with the _Queen of England_?”

A laugh rumbled through Optimus’ cab.

“I have. She is most gracious.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief, “This is so strange, I can’t wrap my mind around it.” He paused for a moment, thinking something over before he asked, “So this is what you did, then? On Cybertron?”

“After I received the title of Prime, yes.”

Sam felt a surge of curiosity, but he bit his tongue. He never knew which subjects were acceptable and which were taboo when it came to Cybertron before the Great War. Something on his face must have been telling, however, for Optimus prompted him gently.

“If you have a question Sam, please ask it.”

Sam waffled for only a moment, before he asked in a rush, “So Prime is a title? How did you get it? What did you do before you were a Prime?”

There was a soft, warbling chuckle in response, and then Optimus was silent for a long moment. Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was gathering his thoughts, and choosing his words carefully.

“Yes, Prime is a title. It is a designation granted by Primus, first to the original Primes and then, through them, to their successors. As you know, Primes are the political leaders of Cybertron, whereas the title of Lord High Protector is given to the mechanoid who leads Cybertron’s armies.”

“Like Megatron.” Sam said, grimly.

“Like Megatron.” Optimus agreed, and then he continued, “Before I was bestowed with the name Optimus Prime, I was a data clerk in Iacon—“

“A data clerk?” Sam repeated, incredulously.

“A data clerk.” Optimus confirmed, amusement warming his voice. Before he could continue, however, Sam raised a hand and cut the Autobot leader off.

“No, wait, I’m going to need some more information here. A data clerk? I assumed you were royalty or something.”

Optimus’ jovial laughter reverberated through the cab, and Sam found himself smiling in response.

“Nothing of the sort. I was a lowly data clerk named Orion Pax, who worked under the tutelage of my mentor, Alpha Trion.” Anticipating Sam’s next question, Optimus said, “Yes, Orion Pax is my original name. I did not lie to you Sam.”

Sam sat back in surprise. Although he could not articulate why, the knowledge that Optimus had shared his real name with him touched Sam deeply. He instinctively knew that it was profoundly personal for the Autobot leader.

“I was given the title of Prime by Alpha Trion after Sentinel Prime disappeared. To this day, we do not know whatever became of him.”

“But why were you chosen? How were you chosen?”

“The why is complicated. Alpha Trion saw something in me that, in his ancient wisdom, he interpreted to be divined from Primus himself. The how is more easily explained—after Sentinel Prime disappeared, Alpha Trion was given the Matrix of Leadership for safe-keeping. When he bestowed it upon me, I was re-made as Optimus Prime.”

There was a curious inflection in Optimus’ words, as though he were implying something, but it went completely over Sam’s head.

“That is wild. If the Cybertronian Senate was as corrupt as Ratchet says, then I am sure they didn’t appreciate being usurped by a data clerk.” 

Optimus rumbled lowly, and Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, “No, they certainly did not.”

They talked for the entire drive back to the receiving room of the Hive. For every question that Optimus answered, he raised many others, and the Autobot leader was endlessly patient with him. After Sam had said his good-byes and returned to his apartment, it occurred to him that Optimus wasn’t just sharing information about his past—he had been teaching Sam about Cybertron and its history. Their conversation was on Sam’s mind all afternoon, and the following morning he made his way through West Quad until he arrived at Optimus’ office.

Sam had been in Optimus’ office only once before. It was a large room, entirely Cybertronian in design. There was an Autobot-sized desk in the center of the space, on which was a touch display and a variety of datapads. There were also several piles of papers and file folders on the desk and, to Sam’s genuine amusement, a human-sized stacked letter tray labeled “In” and “Out”. Prime looked up from his work when Sam entered, curiosity on his face.

“Sam, can I help you?”

He fought the urge to fidget, and asked, “Are you busy?”

Optimus looked at him contemplatively for a long moment, and then he said, “I have some time. What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could ask you some more questions. About Cybertron, I mean.”

Optimus looked momentarily surprised, and then his expression softened into a pleased smile. In the weeks that followed, Sam and Optimus talked often about Cybertron, its history, its political system, and its factions. Optimus was a patient and gifted teacher, who used leading questions and the Socratic Method to test Sam’s understanding of material with the precision of a veteran educator. It was not long before Optimus was adding their impromptu lessons to his calendar, after which he would send Sam away with datapads filled with historical, religious, and political texts. Sam complained at length about the dryness of the files, but he completed the readings all the same.

Three days before the start of the semester, he met with Ratchet for his medical clearance exam. Since the command trine’s attack three weeks previously, the medic had added all manner of human-purposed medical equipment to his medical bay, including a hospital gurney. That was where Sam found himself sitting, twiddling his thumbs anxiously, as Ratchet completed his scans. When the medic initiated his glitchy-red sensory sweep, Sam grimaced hard and held himself still as the sensation of pins-and-needles crawled over his entire body.

Ratchet released a noisy ex-vent when the scan was completed.

“Well, give it to me straight. How bad is it?” Sam asked.

“You are in perfect health. I can find no signs that you ever had a concussion, let alone that you are supposedly suffering from the after-effects of one.”

Sam huffed an exasperated sigh, “That’s not what I meant.”

“The Allspark signature is stronger.” Ratchet confirmed to Sam’s dismay, “There has been a 0.4 percent increase in its signal strength since my original scan on the Theodore Roosevelt.”

Sam stared at the medic expectantly, “And?”

“And what?”

“And what does that mean, Ratchet?” Sam snapped anxiously, “Am I about to grow wheels or what?”

Ratchet stared at him incredulously for a moment, and then he barked a loud laugh, rusty from long-disuse.

“No, Sam. You are not about to grow wheels or aft plating or struts. You are a perfectly normal, perfectly healthy human male—with the exception of the Allspark radiation in your cells, which does not seem to be causing any adverse health effects.”

Sam snorted.

“Other than the fact that it stopped my aging and gave me accelerated healing.”

Ratchet nodded in concession. “Except that.”

Sam huffed a sigh, mentally adding one more thing to the list of shit he had to work through in therapy, “You are being remarkably cavalier about all of this.”

Ratchet lifted a pauldron in a shrug, “Do not mistake my calm for a lack of concern. The Allspark energy is not causing any urgent—“ At Sam’s withering look, he amended himself, “—_immediate_ health effects. I will do my utmost to understand how this has happened, but for the moment you are in no immediate danger.”

“Does that mean I can take a full course load? And start patrolling again?”

“Indeed it does. You have passed your medical clearance exam with flying colors, as the humans would say.”

Sam was caught off-guard by the medic’s casual tone. He had expected Ratchet to argue with him or lecture him about the dangers of patrolling. He must have noticed Sam’s surprise, because Ratchet pinned him with a serious look.

“You were expecting me to try and talk you out of it? You are well aware of the dangers, as are the scouts. Would I prefer you try to minimize the risk to yourself and others? Obviously yes, but do I expect you to spend the remainder of your life—which may prove to be just as long as ours are—hiding in a bunker? Of course not. That’s not living, Sam.” 

Sam found himself taken aback by the unusually empathetic response.

“Thanks, Ratch.” He murmured.

The medic looked at him for a moment longer before he made a dismissive sound.

“Your thanks is unnecessary, Sam. Now get out of my medical bay—I have work to do.”

Sam quirked a smile at the medic, seeing straight through his acerbic tone. That evening, Sam fell on his coursework like a starved man on a three-course meal. He printed off his course syllabi and filled out his calendar with due dates for tests and assignments. Sam also set aside time for his informal lessons with Optimus, treating it as a sixth course. When all of that was finished, he started on the assigned reading for his _Dialogue of Democracy_ class.

Later that evening, as he lay curled on his couch watching television, he pulled out his cellphone and sent a message to the group text that contained Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Cliffjumper.

_SamWitwicky: Are you guys sure you’re alright if I come along tomorrow?_

His phone pinged before he could even put it back on the coffee table.

_Bee: You are always welcome, Sam._

Sam frowned at the screen. Whether he was welcome was never in question—whether he was a huge liability certainly was.

_SamWitwicky: you know what I mean._

_Roddy: Relax Sammy, we’ve got you. Besides, if the Decepticons attack again, that’ll just give me the chance to try out my new firepower. _

Sam rolled his eyes. Wheeljack and Ironhide had made some modifications to Roddy’s weaponry, and he hadn’t shut up about it for two weeks.

_SamWitwicky: i’m trying to be serious _

_Roddy: I’m as serious as a heart attack. I’d love to say thanks to Thundercracker with the business-end of my new plasma canon._

Trying to get a straight answer, Sam turned to his guardian for support.

_SamWitwicky: Bumblebee?_

_Bee: Patrolling always carries some degree of risk, you know that. Whether or not you are present, we are all high-priority targets for the Decepticons. _

Strangely, the reminder that the Decepticons wanted to kill them all was reassuring. It was not like Sam’s presence or absence would change the fact that the scouts had targets on their backs. He shrugged and typed a quick reply.

_SamWitwicky: Alright then. I’ll see you in the morning._

The morning came with a surprise. As Sam stepped into the large receiving room at 7:45 AM, he noticed that Will and Ironhide were standing with the scouts. Will turned as he approached, and Sam saw that he had a bundle of material in his arms.

“What that?” He asked, curiously, as he stopped beside Bumblebee.

“Your gear.” Will responded, extending the bundle towards him.

“My gear?”

“Yup, courtesy of Wheeljack. Prime’s orders.” Will said, pushing the bundle into Sam’s arms, “It’s a lightweight protective vest made of Cybertronian alloy.”

Sam looked at the bundle in surprise, “What? Why?”

Will snorted, “Why do you think? In case Megatron decides to have another go at you. It’ll protect your center mass from a lot of percussive and ballistic damage.”

Sam looked at Will incredulously, “And if they go for my head?”

Will shrugged, “Duck.”

Sam gave the soldier a withering glare, but pulled on the vest without complaint. It was a silvery-steel color, lightweight and fabric-like. It had a high collar, which extended half-way up his neck, and sleeves that went to his elbows. The vest hugged his chest closely, and extended down his torso past his hips. Sam twisted experimentally, and was surprised to find that the material was flexible and comfortable.

“Wheeljack is working on some more designs, so you’ll have your pick of gear soon enough.” Will explained as Sam climbed into Bee’s cab.

“Wonderful.” Sam said, “I’d hate for the Decepticons to see me in the same outfit twice.”

Roddy nodded in agreement, “That would be so embarrassing.”

Sam laughed, pulling Bumblebee’s door closed behind him. Bee, Roddy, and Cliff accelerated forward until they were waiting on the lift.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, checking in.//_

_//Cliffjumper, checking in.//_

_//Roddy Too Hotty, the mech with the body, checking in.//_

There was hardly a pause before the sound of Prowl’s put-upon sigh gusted through Bee’s cabin, and the strategist replied, _//Acknowledged. Head to Marianne Point. Good luck.//_

Sam spent the entire patrol as stiff as a rod of iron. Despite the scouts’ attempts to draw him into conversation, he remained silent and tense, especially when they arrived at Barton Point. Sam had no intentions of getting out of Bee’s cab, but his guardian pulled to a stop and popped the door.

“What are you doing?” He asked, uncertainly.

The seatbelt unfastened of its own accord, and Bumblebee rocked on his wheels. Not wanting to look like a complete coward, Sam reluctantly climbed out of the cab. Bumblebee rolled back several feet and then transformed, kneeling beside him in his bipedal mode.

“You are safe, Sam.” The scout said, and Sam winced. His guardian’s large servo came to rest against his back, firm and supportive. Sam’s gaze skipped over the beach, noting the deep scours in the white sand where pedes had dug in during the struggle. There were deep blast marks along the bream from the missile salvo, and scorches burned into the large rocks along the road, many of which were cracked from the heat of plasma fire. Sam swallowed hard.

“You’re safe with us, Sam. With me.” Bee repeated, his voice intense and serious, and Sam recognized the promise for what it was.

“Thank-you Bee.” He murmured, bumping the scout with his shoulder playfully.

The scout looked at him searchingly, as though trying to discern whether Sam was truly assuaged. Sam smiled reassuringly at him in return, and after a moment, Bumblebee straightened. He looked down at him with bright optics, and something possessed Sam to reach out and stroke the yellow plating of Bee’s side, affectionately. They stood together for a long time, before Bee whistled at him regretfully and turned back towards the road, beckoning him to follow. Sam was blindsided by the thrill of _something_ that raced through him at the sight of the scout, moving with a grace that belied his inherent strength. Sam tilted his head considerately, musing to himself that he would never get tired of watching him, when realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

_Oh, shit._

“Sam, are you coming?” Cliffjumper asked in confusion.

“Yeah, come on space cadet, let’s go.”

Sam took a deep breath, steeling himself, before he started towards the scouts. He fixed Roddy with a sardonic smile as he approached.

“One, I hope you recognize the irony of that statement.” He said, climbing up the bream towards the road, “And two, that’s Ambassador Space Cadet to you.”

* * *

Sam never had the opportunity to panic about the fact that he was attracted to his guardian and best friend. He was back in his apartment for only an hour when the emergency lights started strobing and an incessant alarm cut through the quiet of his living room. Sam was on his feet in an instant, toeing on his shoes and pulling his lanyard around his neck. Within moments, he was striding down the corridor towards the bridge, his cellphone in his hands.

_SamWitwicky: What’s happening?_

_Bee: Simultaneous Decepticon attacks._

Sam felt his heart sink into his feet.

_SamWitwicky: Where?_

_Cliff: Reports are still coming in, the attacks are scattered around the globe._

_SamWitwicky: I am on my way. _

Sam jogged the entire distance from North Quad to the Command Center. The Hive was like a kicked hornet’s nest: people were streaming through the bridge in different directions, all focused and purposeful. It was less than fifteen minutes later that Sam was climbing the steps of the scaffold, out of breath and anxious. The lights in the room were pitched low and a three-dimensional holographic projection of the planet rotated over the conference table. Sam could see four red dots blinking around the globe, and as he watched a fifth dot started blinking over Brazil. He glanced towards the door as Ripcord swept into the room, moving to stand beside Prowl at the head of the conference table. The two Autobots spoke lowly before Optimus stepped forward and the room fell quiet. 

“We have received reports of at least five Decepticon attacks around the globe.” Optimus gestured towards the hologram, “Venezuela, Kuwait, Brazil, Kazakhstan, and Nigeria.” As he spoke, the globe rotated to each country in turn and a video feed started playing, all showing similar scenes of fire, billowing smoke, and twisted metal.

“The attacks in Venezuela and Brazil were carried out by the command trine.” Prowl continued, and the hologram disappeared, replaced by blurry video stills of the familiar-looking jets. Sam felt dread twist in his stomach, and he crossed his arms tightly, “The attack in the Kuwait was carried out by an unknown jet—presumably Megatron. We do not know who initiated the attacks in Kazakhstan or Nigeria, other than they were mechanoids who struck fast and then withdrew.”

“All of the attacks followed the same pattern.” Ripcord said, and the hologram of the planet flickered back into existence, “They attacked without warning, destroying energy infrastructure—most notably oil and natural gas pipelines and storage facilities—and then withdrew before the humans could launch a defense.”

“There are a number of unusual aspects about these attacks. The first is their widespread and coordinated nature. To date, most of the Decepticon attacks on Earth have been haphazard and opportunistic. The second is the comparatively small number of reported causalities—less than twenty deaths and one hundred injuries.”

Will stepped forward, “That is strange. There were over thirty causalities in Shanghai alone. Somehow I doubt that the Decepticons have suddenly developed a respect for human life.”

“I share your reservations, Major.” Optimus rumbled, “Prowl?”

The strategist tiled his head at the hologram considerately.

“Given the limited available data, I can think of two potential explanations for this attack pattern. The first is that the Decepticons targeted these sites for a specific reason—most likely, they contained something of significance that they were sent to retrieve. This explains both the hit-and-run stratagem and the lower-than-usual morbidity and mortality rates.”

Ripcord stepped forward, elaborating on the strategist’s words, “However, we can think of nothing at these sites that would appeal to Lord Megatron. They are simple energy infrastructures with no obvious tactical importance, although the country representatives are being less-than-forthcoming with information.”

Will scoffed, “Surprise, surprise.”

“The second explanation is that this is an elaborate plan to draw us out from Diego Garcia, spread our numbers thin, and then attack.” Prowl said, “With Megatron and the command trine on the planet, they would easily be able to coordinate a full frontal assault.”

Prowl glanced at Optimus and continued, “There is one other point of curiosity. Each of the targeted countries voted against our petition to the Secretary-General.”

Optimus rumbled considerately, his optics narrowing in thought.

“I find it highly unlikely that Megatron would have taken offense at their objection to our petition. It is more likely that he is trying to sow seeds of discord by making it appear that we are retaliating against the nay-votes.”

Prowl and Ripcord nodded in unison at his assessment of the situation. After a long moment, Optimus ex-vented loudly.

“If this was a hit-and-run maneuver, then they will have obtained whatever it was they were after and the sites are no longer at risk. If, however, Megatron is sowing discord, we are obligated to help however we can.” He turned to his second-in-command, “Send a message to the targeted countries with an offer of assistance, and then send a sitrep to the other countries who voted against our petition.”

He turned back to the room at large, “I am ordering NEST to a full activation. Teams will be deployed around the Pacific Ocean in case a full-scale response is required. Arcee, Chromia, Elita-One, Skids and Mudflap will go to the Yokota Air Base in Tokyo. Ripcord, Sideswipe, and Sunstreaker will go to Camp Lemmonier. Perceptor, Jolt, and Mirage will go to the Hickam Air Force Base in Hawaii.”

Ripcord blinked his optics in surprise, taken aback. “Prime, it would logical for me to stay with Prowl to assist with coordination and response.”

Optimus shook his head minutely, “Your analytical skills are above reproach, Ripcord, but I need you in the field in case Megatron’s plan is to spread us thin and attack.”

Ripcord frowned, “As you say, Prime.”

“Ultra Magnus, Kup, and Ironhide, you will re-double your efforts to get the _Ark _and the _Trion_ functional. Bluestreak, you will assist Wheeljack in his efforts to develop a working land-bridge.” Optimus turned to Will, “I want you to assemble three strike teams to join the Autobot deployments.”

“Sure. Any preference for skillset or background?”

“Use your best judgement, Major, but they must be prepared for direct engagement.”

Will nodded and stepped away, and Optimus looked around the room with a grave countenance, “You have your orders. Roll out.”

Immediately, the room sprang into motion. Autobots formed loose groups as per Optimus’ instructions and made their way out of the command center with due haste. Humans swarmed around the scaffolding; technicians talked urgently into headsets and logicians carried orders back and forth. Sam stood in the center of the mayhem, as though in the eye of a storm, as anxiety slowly built in his gut.

Bumblebee stepped into his field of vision, snapping him out of his reverie.

“Prime has ordered patrols of the island every two hours.” His guardian winced at him apologetically, “You are on stand-down until the activation is over.”

Sam sighed gustily, “Buddy, that’s fine by me. Be careful.”

Bee whistled at him appreciatively, and then stepped away to join Cliffjumper and Roddy as they made their way out of the command room. Sam stood and watched for a while longer before he walked down the scaffolding and across the room. He nodded to Dave and Optimus’ holoform, who were engaged in intense discussion, but he did not interrupt them. He walked slowly, making himself inconspicuous as possible, as he avoided the throngs of people dashing through the bridge.

He had to hand it to Optimus—NEST was a finely oiled machine.

He was half-way back to the North Quad when he heard someone call his name. He turned around in surprise to see Ripcord striding towards him. The analyst’s tail-like chain whip was curled around his shoulders.

“Sam, Optimus needs you.”

He pulled up short in surprise, “What? Why?”

“The Decepticons have just attacked Puerto Rico.”

Sam’s eyes squeezed closed, dread twisting in his stomach, “What can I do about it?”

Ripcord looked at him in exasperation, “You are our Ambassador. The United States has questions, and they are expecting answers.”

Sam hesitated for only a moment before he turned on his heel and sprinted after the analyst.

“What do we know?” He asked tightly.

“Same pattern as the previous attacks: a hit-and-run strike on a fuel depot. We managed to capture a still from a security feed that confirms the attack was perpetrated by Lord Megatron.”

The feeling of dread intensified in his gut, and he broke out into a cold sweat.

“Any causalities?”

“No word yet. Search and rescue is still ongoing.”

Sam breathed out a heavy sigh, and made to turn onto West Quad when Ripcord shook his helm sharply, “Not the command room. We are going to South Quad.”

Sam looked at the analyst in surprise before he remembered that Dave had said South Quad ramped up during activations. He struggled to keep up with Ripcord’s long-legged strides, and so he walked in silence. It was not long before the analyst opened the South Quad door for him, and they were hurrying through the main corridor. As predicted, the Quad was a buzz of activity as human operatives and soldiers scrambled to complete their orders.

He glanced up at the analyst in confusion as they passed the entrance to logistics.

“Where are we going?”

“It is not much further. Keep up, please. Time is of the essence.”

Sam felt a twist of anxiety bloom in his stomach that was unrelated to the Decepticon attacks.

“What did you say Optimus wanted again?”

The foot traffic had slowed considerately at this end of the Quad, and they passed only the occasional administrative assistant or technician.

Ripcord glanced at him mildly, “Prime did not say, and I did not ask. As you know, Prime’s commands are to be obeyed unquestioningly.”

Sam felt his heart lodge itself in his throat, and he had no idea why. Ripcord’s words and demeanor were perfectly affable, but he suddenly felt trapped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, noting that he had no new text messages or missed calls. Ripcord gestured to a large hangar at the end of the hall; the lights were on, but he could not make out what was beyond the doors. Sam’s footsteps faltered, and he came to a stop a dozen feet in front of the hangar. Although he could not make sense of the panic that was sending ice through his veins, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he couldn’t set foot inside that room.

Ripcord stopped, turning to look at him.

“Whatever is the matter, Sam?” He asked, polite concern in his voice.

It was Ripcord’s tone that did it. Without second-guessing himself, Sam reached into his pocket and thumbed the panic button on his home screen.

_One second, two seconds, three seconds._

Ripcord stiffened abruptly, looking at him in surprise.

“You activated the tacnet.” He said considerately, and then he sighed, “I wish you had not done that.”

Sam tensed from head to toe, pivoting to run, when Ripcord’s chain caught him like a bullwhip across his abdomen. He flew back several feet and slid across the smooth linoleum floor, the breath knocked out of him. Ripcord strode forward quickly, catching him around the waist with a large servo, and stepped into the hangar.

Sam blinked tears out of his eyes, trying desperately to catch his breath, when the analyst dropped him on the floor in the center of the room. Ripcord pivoted, turning to face the door through which they had come, and crouched over his body.

“What… what are you doing?” He wheezed, an arm curling around his stomach where the analyst’s chain had struck him. It hurt like a firebrand.

Ripcord tutted at him admonishingly.

“Be silent, please. I am thinking.”

Sam rolled onto his side, trying to get his hands underneath him when the analyst flipped him onto his back with a single digit. He pressed down on Sam’s shoulders, pinning him to the floor, despite Sam’s desperate kicking.

“Lie still and be patient, your friends will be here soon.”

The analyst’s voice was terrifyingly pleasant, as though he were asking Sam about the weather. He gaped up at the mechanoid in panic, but Ripcord paid him no mind other than the servo pressing on his chest. As promised, it was not long before Sam could hear the throaty roar of engines reverberating down the hall. Moments later, a large black Topkick came through the hangar doors followed by a yellow Maserati.

_Ironhide and Sunstreaker._

Will climbed out of Ironhide’s cab, his expression equal parts confusion and concern. As soon as he stepped free, the two Autobots transformed.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Will asked striding forward.

Without taking his optics off the two Autobots, Ripcord speared Sam through the shoulder with the tip of his chain whip. Sam screamed in agony, twisting in a vain effort to escape the pain, but he was pinned firmly to the floor. Shrieks of outrage came from the two Autobots, and the sound of rapidly charging canons filled the large hangar.

“_Are you glitched? What are you doing?” _Sunstreaker cried.

Ironhide stepped forward, the glow from his canons illuminating the murderous expression on his face, “Let him go.”

“Stay where you are, Autobot, or I will tear him apart.” Ripcord’s voice was calm and collected, and Ironhide froze mid-step. The analyst paused suddenly, tilting his head, and then he tsk’ed disappointedly.

“Prowl is efficient, I will give him that. Unfortunately, without access to the tacnet, I cannot deliver my message. Please tell Prime to hurry along—it won’t be long before his pet bleeds out.”

Sam grasped the metal chain where it impaled his left shoulder, pulling with all of his might. His hands quickly became slick with blood, but the chain did not budge an inch. He gasped, desperately trying to pull air into his spasming lungs, aware of the warm wetness spreading beneath him.

Ripcord glanced down at him for the first time since entering the hangar, “Be still, boy. This does not have to hurt any more than strictly necessary.”

His tone was chiding, as though he were a disappointed teacher speaking to a recalcitrant student. Sam looked at Will, desperately. The soldier walked wide to Ripcord’s right, as Sunstreaker walked to his left. Ironhide stayed dead center, his canons focused unwaveringly on the analyst.

“Hang in there, Sam. You’re going to be fine.” Will assured him.

“Stop where you are,” Ripcord admonished, “Do not think to test my resolve. I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed.”

“What do you want, Ripcord? Let the kid go.”

“I have exactly what I want, Major. Now please, step away.” When Will failed to move, the analyst _twisted_ his chain, and Sam screamed as white-hot pain lanced his body. Will took a hasty step back, his hands raised appeasingly.

“Ripcord, please! Why are you doing this?” Sunstreaker shrieked, his voice pleading.

“Because he’s a slagging traitor, that’s why.” Ironhide growled.

Ripcord chuckled at the weapons specialist, “I’m afraid you’ve gotten that quite backwards, Ironhide.”

Sam could hear the load roar of engines over the static that had begun to build in his ears. He turned his head, tears leaking into his hair, and saw Optimus, Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus come through the hangar doors. He blinked, and suddenly Optimus was standing beside Ironhide in his bipedal mode, his battlemask engaged.

“Ripcord.” The Autobot leader growled, his tone midnight black, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Hello Optimus.” Ripcord greeted civilly, “I wanted to speak with you.”

“Let the boy go, and then you may speak your piece.”

“I shall not, for this involves him as much as you or I.”

“Sam, look at me.”

The words were soft and urgent, but Sam could barely understand them. He was finding it difficult to concentrate.

“Sam, look at me!” Louder now, more insistent.

Sam slowly angled his head to see Ratchet crouched down beside Will, a short distance away. Sam blinked tears out of his eyes, relieved beyond words to see him.

“Ratch.” He whispered, choking on the name. He screwed his eyes shut as the spasm caused his shoulder to twist painfully.

“That’s right, I’m here. I’m right here with you.” The medic promised, and then his voice turned sharp and commanding, “Open your eyes, Sam.”

Sam made a soft noise of protest, but obeyed, blinking blearily at the medic.

“Ripcord, explain yourself.” Prime demanded, his voice dropping an octave in tightly controlled anger.

“How could you do it Prime? How could you destroy it?”

Optimus’ optics narrowed, “This is about the Allspark?”

Ripcord laughed bitterly, “It was all about the Allspark—all of it.”

“It was I who ejected the Cube into space, and it was I who ordered it destroyed. Let the boy go, and I will take his place.”

“I am well aware of your transgressions, _Prime._” This time, Ripcord spat the honorific like a curse, “It is why I swore my allegiance to Lord Megatron after Tyger Pax.”

Ultra Magnus shuttered his optics in disbelief, “You have been loyal to Megatron, all this time?”

“No.” Ripcord corrected, without taking his eyes off Optimus, “I have been loyal to the Allspark all this time. Optimus Prime was willing to destroy it rather than see it claimed by his enemy. The fountain of life for all of our peoples, gone forever, because he was incapable of accepting his defeat with grace.”

Sam started to shiver, goosebumps breaking out over his arms. He was aware of the copper tang of blood—his blood—that was heavy in the air. He looked up at Ratchet, silently begging the medic to help him. Ratchet’s optics never left Sam’s face.

“What you say is true, Ripcord. I swore to protect the Allspark with my life, and I sent it into space knowing that it would be lost or destroyed. Your anger is directed at me, this is unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, I have a debt to settle with the human. You risked the Allspark by sending it into space, but it was the boy who destroyed it.”

“On my orders.” Optimus said, stepping forward. Ripcord crouched low over Sam, tutting warningly. Optimus halted his approach.

“On your orders.” Ripcord agreed, “Now you can watch as something that you love is taken from you forever.”

Sam was losing sensation in his arms and legs. He knew that he was supposed to keep his eyes open, but he was just so tired. 

“There is no way this ends well for you, Ripcord. You aren’t making it out of this room alive.” Ultra Magnus growled, rigid with anger.

“I have no compunctions about dying for my beliefs, Autobot.”

“That’s good, because you’re gonna.” Ironhide promised.

Suddenly, the load roar of engines interrupted them, and Bumblebee flew into the hangar followed by Cliffjumper and Hot Rod. He transformed in motion, skidding to a stop by Ratchet. His optics burned with barely restrained emotion, and he fell to his knees, keening painfully. Sam fixed his guardian with a tremulous smile.

_It’s okay, Bee. It’ll be okay._

The last thing that Sam heard before darkness overtook him moments later was Bumblebee’s anguished wail.

* * *

Ratchet watched as Sam lost consciousness, the boy’s entire body going limp at once. His medical sensors were providing a constant influx of data that caused his situational analysis programs to ping in alarm. Warnings flashed across his HUD about blood loss, diastolic blood pressure, tachycardia, and tachypnea. He organized the most pertinent details into an encrypted data packet, and sent it to the tacnet with high-priority signifiers. If they did not get Sam medical attention, and soon, he was not going to make it. Ratchet sent another message to the pagers of the hospital staff with instructions on how to prepare the medical bay for Sam’s arrival. He was relieved when Dr. Lewis sent him a terse message in acknowledgement, and then he turned his attention back to the situation at hand.

“This is your last chance, Ripcord. Let the boy go, and you may live.”

Ripcord scoffed, “Live? Lord Megatron will have my spark for disobeying his orders. There is nothing left for me to lose, Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm, narrowing his optics.

Another warning flashed across Ratchet’s visual display: Sam’s blood pressure had dropped to 60 over 40 and his heart rate had increased to 135 beats per minute. They did not have much time. He pinged Optimus on an encrypted private channel, and his leader looked sidelong at him in concern. Ratchet looked back, grimly.

Optimus turned back to Ripcord, his shoulders setting in determination.

“The boy did not destroy the Allspark, Ripcord.”

“Is that so?” Ripcord replied amusedly, “Do explain.”

“You were the High Priest at the Temple Simfur. You have read the ancient texts; the Cube was a vessel and nothing more. The Allspark energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only be transformed.”

Ripcord went very still as the implications of Optimus’ words became clear, and then his face contorted in fury.

“You would blaspheme, Prime? To _me_?” He hissed.

“I do not blaspheme, it is the truth. You are aware of the Allspark energy that radiates from his cells.”

Ripcord’s claws dug gouges in the concrete floor beneath him, “A signature, nothing more! A remnant from the Cube’s destruction. No organic could contain the power of the Allspark.”

“He is not any organic, Ripcord. Sam is a Prime.”

Ratchet could feel the shock and disbelief that radiated from the electromagnetic fields of his companions, but no one questioned their leader.

Ripcord’s optics narrowed, and he hissed a harsh intake, “Your sacrilege is boundless, Optimus.”

Ratchet’s attention was pulled away from the exchange by the critical alert that flashed across his visual display, priority-one: Sam’s heart rate was slowing, his pulse thready and tachycardic. Grimly, he pinged Optimus’ private comm line.

_//You have less than a klik.//_

“I want him alive.” Prime ordered tightly, his field burning with righteous anger.

Ratchet glanced at Bumblebee, who was on his knees in front of Sam, pleading with the boy in Cybertronian. Ratchet sent an encrypted comm to Cliffjumper and Hot Rod, coded with urgent signifiers and flagged as top priority.

_//Sam is about to die. Keep Bumblebee from off-lining himself until I can get to him.//_

The two scouts stiffened in shock as they received the message, staring at the medic in confusion before grim understanding dawned between them. Silently, they moved closer to Bumblebee, tense and ready.

_//On my mark, take him down.//_ Optimus’ priority command cut across the tacnet.

_//You got it.// _Ironhide growled, his message overlaid with anger and determination.

Ratchet watched as Sam’s vitals slowly decreased, ruthlessly shunting aside the medical protocols that screamed at him to take action. Sam took a weak breath, and then another, and then his chest stilled.

Ratchet set a countdown on his primary visual display: **08:00:00**

_//Now.//_

Optimus lifted his arm, and a thin red plasma laser severed Ripcord’s chain. The analyst was on his feet in an instant, his plasma blaster charging as he shoved it into his own chest cavity. Ironhide and Sunstreaker attacked in unison, one tackled the Decepticon around the waist as the other grabbed his arm and wrenched it away from his spark. Ripcord snarled and released a plasma volley that went wide, just missing Sunstreaker.

**07:54:00**

Bumblebee’s anguished screaming filled the hangar as his sensors registered the first missed heartbeat. It was a horrible sound, beyond grief or loss. Hot Rod and Cliffjumper were on him in an instant, pinning his arms behind his back and wrestling him to the ground. Bumblebee shrieked in desperation and pain, bucking wildly beneath them, but the scouts held him down.

_//Little help here.// _Cliffjumper’s voice cut over the tacnet, overlaid with strain.

_//Sunstreaker, assist. I’ll take over from here.// _Ultra Magnus commanded the younger soldier, stepping forward to wrestle Ripcord into submission.

**07:51:02**

As soon as Ripcord was free, Ratchet rushed forward and grabbed the prone boy. He disengaged the compression nozzle from his servo, and filled the gaping hole in his shoulder with a military-grade coagulant foam. As soon as the foam set, Ratchet picked Sam up and tucked him close to his chassis, transforming and speeding from the hangar without a word. Once Sam was laid out on the gurney in his cabin, Ratchet’s holoform materialized over him. The medic was not sure whether Sam’s previous revival had been reliant on the cardiopulmonary resuscitation that the emergency medics had performed, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He started chest compressions immediately, at the same time pinging Dr. Lewis to ensure that everything was prepared for their arrival.

She responded immediately in the affirmative.

_//Ripcord secured.// _

_//Pit-spawned slagger.//_ Ironhide growled.

_//Kup en route with stasis cuffs. ETA four klicks.//_

The medic relegated the tacnet chatter to a secondary processor, establishing a looping sub-routine that would alert him immediately if a priority-coded message was received.

**05:12:55**

Ratchet pulled into his medical bay at high speed, transforming and sliding across the concrete with Sam’s body tucked carefully in his arms. He took three steps forward, and placed the boy on the gurney that had been prepared for him.

“Lewis, chest compressions.” He commanded, as his holoform materialized on the berth. Lewis was on the gurney in an instant, straddling Sam on her knees, rhythmically compressing his ribcage. Thompson stepped forward and secured a bag-valve mask over Sam’s mouth and nose, and started inflating it in time to Lewis’ compressions.

“Morrison, start a peripheral venous catheter for IV fluids. Jackson, start a central line in the superior vena cava. Push plasma as fast as you can without blowing the vein. If I am correct, then we have less than five minutes to compensate for at least 1250 millimeters of lost fluids.”

Lewis looked at Ratchet in surprise, concern shadowing her face.

“Ratchet—“

“Follow your orders, doctor.”

Ratchet transformed one digit into a pair of trauma sheers, and cut Sam’s clothes off his body. As soon as the material was free, his holoform stepped forward and inserted a closed-system peripheral catheter into the femoral vein of his inner thigh, connecting the cannula to the bag of plasma that was already waiting. 

**01:33:00**

Ratchet frowned internally. They had collectively pushed 750 milliliters—not nearly enough to keep Sam out of hypovolemic shock if he were to resuscitate. Ratchet stalked over to the medical refrigeration unit and pulled out another bag of plasma, transforming one digit of his servo into an 18-gauge needle. He pierced the plasma bag and withdrew 25 cubic centimeters of fluid, injecting it directly into the median cubital vein of Sam’s arm. Once the needle was empty, Ratchet refilled the syringe and repeated the action.

**00:25:10**

Ratchet became aware of Optimus’ field, tense and hopeful behind him. He did not spare his Prime a glance, focusing instead on refilling the hypodermic needle for a third time.

**-00:01:01**

He felt his spark sink in its casing as the timer rolled over the eight-minute mark.

_Eight minutes was a best guess._ He assured himself, refilling the needle for a fourth time. _There was nothing empirical about that estimate._

**-00:45:55**

He wracked his expansive knowledge base for alternative treatment options. He could try an external defibrillator, as they had in Egypt, although that had proven unsuccessful at the time.

He could feel the hope in Prime’s field fade away, replaced with bitter failure.

**-01:10:17**

For the first time since the start of the Great War, Ratchet allowed himself a moment of weakness, and sent a silent prayer into the emptiness of the neural-net.

_Primus, please._

**-01:19:12**

Sam’s eyes snapped open and he screamed, thrashing blindly on the gurney. Lewis exclaimed in surprise, immediately trying to hold him down to prevent Sam from tearing out the IV lines. Ratchet’s spark lurched in relief for a split second, and then a pulse of Allspark energy rocked him backwards on his pedes.

Simultaneously, a newspark signature flared to life on the neural-net and Sam’s screams became agonized. Ratchet stood frozen for a nano-klick as his logic relays flashed errors across his visual display, but he could not deny what he was observing with his own sensory array. The signature was as fragile as any newspark, undulating precipitously across the neural-network, and broadcasting a klaxon of pain and terror that was undeniably _Sam. _Ratchet experienced a moment of indecision as his logic relays protested the radical options that flashed through his processors. The newspark signature waivered precariously as his medical scanners noted Sam’s heartrate (144 beats per minute) and his blood pressure (170/110), and Ratchet came to a decision.

Shunting aside his protesting logic relays, Ratchet activated his long-dormant Creator protocols. At once, the protocols roared to life, sweeping across his primary, secondary, and tertiary systems, sending a flood of data and command parameters through his processor, reorganizing priority codes, and shifting action/inaction commands. The Creator protocols did not care that Sam was human—they recognized a struggling newspark and reacted accordingly. Ratchet focused as the protocols established a new bio-neural interface, activating a Creator bond. At once, the directionless agony and fear emanating from Sam’s spark signature funneled through their bond, and Ratchet grimaced in response. The Creator protocols responded as they would with any newspark in critical status and forced Sam into stasis.

Sam collapsed against the gurney instantly, silencing the klaxon of pain and fear that had been burning through the neural-network. Ratchet scanned him quickly, noting with relief that Sam’s vitals were already lowering to more acceptable levels as the spark signature stabilized.

Wordlessly, he turned and met his Prime’s optics, which were wide with astonished disbelief.

_//I did what I had to do for him to survive.// _He defended himself.

_//You did no less than your duty, Ratchet.//_ Prime assured him, his voice heavy with emotion.

The medic nodded wearily, creating a high-priority medical alert that he sent to the tacnet. Then he turned back to the battered boy on the gurney, and went about the painstaking task of getting him stabilized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you once again to Steelfeathers. I borrowed her description of Optimus' guardian/defense protocols for Ratchet's Creator protocol.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am flattered beyond words at the reaction to my last chapter. Thank-you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos!

At first, there was only darkness.

His awareness ebbed and flowed, but there was no recognition of who or where he was—no memory of what had happened. He drifted comfortably, peacefully, as time passed around him. He may have stayed like that for minutes or for years, it was impossible to say. Each time that his awareness returned, however, it brought with it a little more cognizance, until at last he became aware of his surroundings.

The space he was in was dimensionless—perfectly dark and quiet, without any sense of ‘up’ or ‘down’. He twisted, trying to gain his bearings, only to realize that the darkness was absolute. Terror surged through him, hot and sharp, and he struggled blindly. Immediately, he was embraced by a comforting weight—a presence—and his panic slowly calmed as he realized that he was not alone. He clung to the presence closely, his only foothold in the directionless void, until his consciousness faded away again.

When he regained awareness an interminable time later, the fear returned with it. Once again, he found himself pulled close to the presence, which wrapped around him reassuringly.

_//Be calm, Sam. All is well.//_

The words were meaningless, but he understood the soothing pulse that accompanied them, and he relaxed as he drifted off again.

The next time he regained consciousness, he twisted expectantly, trying to find the now-familiar presence. To his consternation, he could feel it close by—just beyond his reach. Somehow, he knew that the presence was aware that he was awake, and he felt a flash of frustration. Why didn’t it come to him?

_//No, you must come to me.//_

He frowned, confused. How?

The presence glowed enticingly, and he struggled futility in the directionless space.

_//Like so.//_ The presence murmured, and he felt something _nudge _him. He frowned again, trying to mimic the motion. After several unsuccessful attempts, he was able to reach the presence, which drew him close. The effort was exhausting.

_//Well done, Sam.//_

As before, the words meant nothing to him, but he could feel the warm approval that accompanied them.

When he came back to awareness, the presence was further away, and he huffed in grumpy irritation. Once again, he knew that the presence was regarding him closely, patient and expectant. He considered the distance between them, before deciding that it was too far for him to cross.

_//No, it’s not. Come along, just as you did before.//_

He gathered himself with great effort and, in fits and starts, crossed the space between them. When the presence finally enveloped him, he felt weak from the effort he had expended. His consciousness faded rapidly, as the presence pulsed soothingly around him.

The next time he achieved lucidity, he twisted and located the familiar presence—further away still. Without hesitation, he crossed the space between them and pressed in close, sighing in relief as the feeling of _nothingness _faded away. Distantly, he realized that the effort had been substantially easier that time.

_//It will continue to get easier with practice.// _The voice assured him, and he realized suddenly that it was indeed a voice. If he concentrated, he could make sense of the words. There was a gentle thrum of _surprise_ from the presence, followed by warm approval.

_//Can you understand me, Sam?//_

Yes, he could. Was that word important?

_//Yes, Sam is your name.// _The voice replied.

He focused on the words, trying to make sense of them, and then recognition dawned on him. Yes, of course. His name was Sam. He regarded the presence curiously.

_//I’m Ratchet.//_

Ratchet. That word was familiar, and carried with it a strong association of _safety_ and _security_. He felt a pulse of fond gratification from the presence, and he leaned close in response. He stayed like that for a long while, until his awareness faded away again. 

The next time he regained consciousness, it was to the sound of voices.

_//—progress than I anticipated.// _The presence, Ratchet, was saying.

There was a rumbling noise of acknowledgement in reply.

_//Thank Primus.//_

_//His lucid periods are lasting progressively longer. It won’t be long now.//_

_//How is that possible? It takes vorns for newsparks to on-line.//_

_//I cannot say, but—// _Ratchet paused, and amusement blossomed across the dimensionless space, _//He’s listening.//_

There was a rush of astonishment from the other presence.

_//Through the bond? Did you not establish firewalls?//_

There was a loud snort in response. _//Of course I did.//_

He did not wait to hear the reply. Irritated by the intrusiveness of the voices, he moved away, sinking deeper into the darkness of the void. Ratchet let him go, his presence a gentle glow in the distance. He drifted there for a long time, half-aware and content, before he felt an insistent nudge.

_//Sam, come back.//_

He twisted, trying to draw away from the presence and reclaim the state of comfortable relaxation in which he had been drifting. Ratchet followed him, and he felt another nudge, more insistent this time.

_//Sam.//_

He stirred, frustrated. Why won’t it leave him alone?

_//Use your words.// _Ratchet chided.

He frowned. I am using words.

_//No, like this.//_ Ratchet explained. He felt the presence _focus and push_, and suddenly the knowledge was in his mind.

_// ? //_

Ratchet’s warm approval crossed between them, and he found himself enveloped by the other’s presence. After a moment, Ratchet _shifted_ and they moved through the directionless space until Sam found himself back where he had heard the voices. Sam realized now that the space was rather like an ocean—quiet and dark in the depths, but thrumming with sensation in the shallows. He had the distinct impression of _light_ and _sound_ and _feeling_, although the darkness of the space remained unchanged. He shifted, wishing to return to the comfortable calm from which he had been retrieved. Immediately, Ratchet’s presence enveloped him, gentle but restraining.

_//None of that, Sam. Stay here.//_

Why?

He felt an admonishing _tap_, and huffed in exasperation.

_//Why?//_

_//Because I said so.//_

He frowned in annoyance, but he settled down. The strange present-but-not-present sensations crawled over him, distracting and bothersome.

What is this?

He felt Ratchet’s disapproval, and he tried again.

_//What is this?//_

_//This is stasis.// _Ratchet replied, but the answer only confused him more.

_//I don’t understand.//_

_//You don’t need to understand. You’re safe.//_

He drifted for a long while, fading in and out of consciousness. Ratchet was never far away when he surfaced, his presence solid and comforting. Slowly, he noticed a niggling noise at the edge of his awareness. He frowned, focusing his attention towards it, and the noise converged into comprehensible sounds.

“—surgery went well. No signs of infection, but he will require a great deal of physical therapy. When will you remove the plates?”

“It is difficult to say. The usual recommendation is six to eight weeks, but his accelerated healing makes it challenging to develop an accurate estimate.”

He shifted uncertainly as anxiety twisted in his gut. He could understand the words, but they didn’t make any sense—instinctively, however, he knew the voices were speaking about him. Behind him, he became aware of Ratchet’s intense scrutiny.

There was a pause, and then a voice spoke insistently.

“Sam? Can you hear me?”

He jerked back in alarm, his anxiety morphing into panic in an instant. He withdrew as quickly as he knew how, but Ratchet’s presence enveloped him immediately.

_//Calm down, Sam.//_

For the first time, he resisted the presence that surrounded him, straining to slip away. Ratchet held him easily, his grasp gentle but unyielding. He pulled desperately, ignoring the soothing pulses that he felt around him, until his awareness faded away. 

When he surfaced some time later, he found himself still surrounded by Ratchet’s presence. He drifted for a long while, only semi-aware of his surroundings. He could feel the weight of Ratchet’s regard, but the other did not bother him. Eventually, Sam was cognizant enough that he could make out the strange sensations in the distance, and he cringed away.

_//There’s nothing to be afraid of, Sam.//_

He shuddered, leaning into the comforting presence. He didn’t understand what was happening, and he wished desperately to return to quiet darkness that had sheltered him before.

_//I’m sorry, but you can’t.//_

Ratchet herded him, slowly but inexorably, back towards the _light_ and _sound_ in the distance. He shifted uncertainly, but Ratchet did not impose upon him any further. He drifted there, at the edge of stasis, as flashes of _voices_ and _sensation_ washed over him at indiscriminate intervals. Try as he might to tune out the unwelcome feelings, they remained. Eventually, one feeling separated itself from the others—an irritating and insistent discomfort.

He was itchy.

He shifted, this way and that, trying to get away from the sensation, but to no avail. As time passed, his frustration mounted. No matter what he did, the feeling continued to niggle at him persistently—it was _maddening._ He was distantly aware that Ratchet was watching him closely, as though in anticipation.

Determined to end the vexing sensation, Sam gathered himself and surged forward with focused intent. The space around him _twisted _confusingly, and then abruptly fell away.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes slowly, blinking blearily at his surroundings. It took a long moment for the brightness of the room to fade into discernable shapes, but eventually he recognized Ratchet’s medical bay. He raised a shaking hand, determined to scratch his face, when his fingers encountered the soft silicone of an oxygen mask. Sam pulled at it clumsily, weak and uncoordinated, when gentle hands intercepted him and pulled the mask away. He scrubbed his hand over his face, and then dropped his arm back down on the bed.

He couldn’t concentrate well—his mind was sluggish and hazy—but Sam was aware of the burning pain in his chest. He looked down at himself and saw that he was lying on a hospital gurney with the blankets pulled halfway up his bare chest. The pain was emanating from his left shoulder, which was heavily bandaged. He made a soft noise of distress in the back of his throat, raising his hand to touch the white gauze as though to confirm its existence.

Sam felt a gentle _pulse_ of reassurance, and turned his head to see Ratchet standing at his bedside. The medic was staring at him intently, patiently, as though he were letting Sam acclimatize to his surroundings. Sam squinted at him, confused and disoriented. It was as though he could see Ratchet twice—once with his eyes and once with his mind. His eyes saw Ratchet’s bipedal mode, familiar and welcome, but his mind saw something else entirely. It saw Ratchet’s presence, a soft undulating glow, which was impossibly ancient, and intelligent, and _beautiful_—

He felt Ratchet’s touch in his mind, restraining and amused, and the disorienting sensation faded away. Sam looked at him desperately, too weak to voice the confusion that he felt.

“Rest, Sam. I will explain everything after you’ve slept.”

He stared at the medic uncomprehendingly. Rest? He had just woken up.

“You haven’t been asleep, you have been in stasis. It allows your neural network repair itself, but it does little for organic cognitive function.”

Sam felt the proof of the medic’s words in the heaviness of his body, the burning dryness of his eyes, but he knew that he couldn’t rest. He hurt too much.

Ratchet frowned down at him, stepping forward.

“Are you in pain?”

Of course he was in pain—his shoulder burned, throbbing in time with his pulse.

Something softened in Ratchet’s optics.

“My apologies, Sam. This is a learning experience for me as well.”

A hypodermic needle folded out of one digit on Ratchet’s servo, filling with an amber-colored liquid. The medic lifted Sam’s right arm, and inserted the needle into the injection port on the IV taped to the back of Sam’s hand. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief as he felt the medication working through his veins, leaving a pleasant numbness in its wake. Ratchet settled his arm across his chest, looking down at him with amusement.

“As promised, no carte blanche sedation. Just good old fashioned narcotics.”

Sam sighed again, relaxing into the mattress as the burning pain in his shoulder ebbed away. Although he struggled to remain awake, his aching body had other ideas, and he nodded off within moments. He slept like a dead man, completely oblivious to the goings on around him. There were dreams—snatches of half-memories and strange imagery—but they were fleeting, and forgotten immediately.

He shifted against the mattress, surfacing slowly. His first cognizant thought was that he was warm and comfortable, relaxed in a full-bodied way that was indicative of painkillers. He sighed contentedly, and cracked open his eyes. The medical bay was much as he remembered it. He saw now that his hospital gurney was located on one of the berths along the wall, and surrounded by an array of medical equipment. When he turned his head to get a better look, he realized that the oxygen mask had been replaced while he slept. He reached up and pulled it off, dropping it onto the bed beside him.

“I put that on for a reason, you know.” Ratchet’s chiding voice came from behind him. Sam craned his head as the medic walked into his line of sight.

“Ratchet?” He rasped, and then winced. His mouth was bone dry.

Ratchet looked at him, his gaze clinical and assessing, “How do you feel?”

Sam considered the question seriously. He felt odd—his body was heavy and weak, and his mind was fuzzy from whatever Ratchet had given him, but he wasn’t in pain. 

“That’s good.” Ratchet said with a terse nod, “Other than your oxygen saturation, your vitals are stable.”

Sam stiffened in alarm as Ratchet responded to his unspoken thoughts. He looked at the medic sharply, suddenly aware that he could _feel_ him in an indefinable way. It was a familiar sensation, like a tangible weight in his mind. His eyes widened abruptly as the sensation brought with it his memories of stasis—and of Ripcord.

He jerked back as though he had been tasered, all of his confusion and fear coalescing in an instant.

“What the _fuck_, Ratchet?” He choked, struggling up on his elbows. Ratchet’s holoform was there in an instant, firm hands pushing him back down onto the mattress.

“Calm down, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. The histrionics are unnecessary.”

He shoved the holoform’s hands off him, ignoring the disapproval that he could feel from the medic. Sam gestured between the two of them vaguely but insistently, “What the fuck is this?”

Ratchet in-vented slowly, “I know this is a shock, Sam. This is a Creator bond—what do you remember?”

“A Creator—“ Sam started increduously, and then he squeezed his eyes shut. When he felt reasonably calm, he tried again, “What do you mean, a Creator bond?”

“What do you remember?” Ratchet repeated, instead.

He frowned, casting his mind back. He remembered Ripcord all right, the bastard. He also remembered Ironhide and Sunstreaker arriving, and then Optimus, Ratchet, and Ultra Magnus. He thought he could remember Bumblebee, but the memory was hazy—that might have been a dream.

“Shortly after we arrived, you went into stage four hypovolemic shock and died. I brought you to the medical bay, and approximately nine minutes and twenty seconds after you lost consciousness, you revived.”

Sam stared at him in horrified disbelief, “He actually _killed me_?”

Something dangerous glinted in Ratchet’s optics, but the expression was gone so quickly that Sam wondered whether he had imagined it.

“Yes, he did. Thankfully, the Allspark energy was able to resuscitate you, as it had in Egypt.”

“And this?” He asked, gesturing again between them.

“When you revived, you on-lined.”

“Not helpful, Ratchet.” He snapped.

“I don’t claim to understand how it happened, Sam. When the pulse of Allspark energy occurred, your spark signature appeared in the neural-network as clearly as my own.”

“_I don’t have a spark!_”

“No you do not, but you certainly have a spark signature. Your vitals were critical and I was worried that on-lining was going to kill you, so I established a Creator bond to force you into stasis. It was the only way to stabilize your spark signature, and therefore your vitals.”

_This is not happening to me_, He thought despairingly.

“I assure you that it is.”

Sam jerked back in surprise, and then narrowed his eyes at the medic, “Stop doing that!”

Ratchet tilted his helm at him, looking uncharacteristically solemn.

“I am sorry Sam, but I can’t.” He apologized sincerely, “Has Bumblebee ever told you about the bonds that form among our people?”

Sam didn’t reply for a long moment, staring at the ceiling as he struggled to get himself under control. Eventually, he managed to say, “A little bit. I know about Creator bonds, and spark twins, and spark bonds.”

Ratchet nodded encouragingly, “That’s good, Sam. This—“ The medic paused, and Sam felt a _twinging_ in his mind, as though Ratchet had plucked a guitar string, “—is a Creator bond. It is formed between a Creator mech and a newspark in the early stages of the sparking process. It is used to help guide the development of a sparkling until their final programming has been established.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut.

“Ratchet, I’m a person. Not a newspark or a sparkling, and I don’t _have_ any programming. How is this possible?”

“I don’t know, Sam.” The medic admitted, “It’s unfathomable.”

Sam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling without speaking. Ratchet stood at his side, patient and silent, and Sam knew that the medic was giving him time to process what he had learned.

“Bumblebee said that the Creator bond is permanent, and that it gives the Creator mech control over the sparkling.” He turned his head to look at the medic, “Is that true?”

Ratchet hesitated before he replied, “The answers to your questions are complicated. Yes, the Creator bond is permanent, but it will only remain active until your spark signature fully stabilizes.”

“How long does that take?”

“For mechanoids, it can take centuries.” Ratchet admitted, “But you have already surpassed all of our expectations. The on-lining process for newsparks usually takes a vorn or two—that is, a hundred years or so—and you managed it in nineteen days.”

Sam glanced at the medic. The knowledge that he had been unconsciousness, or in stasis, for so long would normally have floored him, but the news seemed paltry in comparison to what else he had learned.

“And the rest?” He prompted eventually.

“The Creator bond is… unbalanced. That is, the Creator mecha have complete control over what information is transferred over the bond.”

“What can you do?” Sam asked bluntly, cutting to the quick of the matter. Ratchet hesitated again.

“I was able to put you into stasis mode and keep you in REM sleep. I do not believe I could control your physical actions, as the physiology of your brain is too different.”

“You don’t think so? Or you know so?”

“I do not know for certain, Sam. When you’re fully recovered, the two of us will work to understand the nature and the extent of your spark signature, as well as the bond between us.”

Sam felt the first stirrings of genuine fear spread across his chest. The presence in his mind shifted forward, almost hesitantly, and he felt a gentle touch of assurance.

“I know this is frightening Sam, but I have on-lined many mechanoids. I know what I am doing.”

“Can’t you just… deactivate it? Or block me out or something?” He asked, desperately.

Ratchet shuttered his optics slowly, “I could, but I won’t.”

Sam glared at him angrily, “What? Why not?”

“There is a reason why the on-lining process takes so long. Newsparks are delicate, and they require careful monitoring to ensure that they develop without issue. It would be ethically and professionally irresponsible to leave you unattended throughout this transition.”

Sam would normally have argued back, but he could feel the quiet sincerity and conviction behind the medic’s words. He glanced back at the ceiling again, thinking about what he had been told. Eventually, he sighed.

“What happened afterwards? With Ripcord?”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed in tightly controlled anger, “The coward tried to off-line himself as soon as your heart stopped beating. Ironhide and Ultra Magnus subdued him until Kup could arrive with stasis cuffs. He got quite the surprise when the Allspark pulse happened and you on-lined.”

“Where is he now?”

Again, he felt Ratchet’s reassuring touch. “He is no longer a threat to you.”

Instinctively, Sam _nudged_ at the presence in his mind, “Care to elaborate?”

He felt a pulse of surprise across the bond, followed by a fleeting feeling of encouragement.

“He’s being held in a containment cell aboard the _Ark_.” Ratchet replied.

“What’s Optimus going to do with him?”

“That’s for Prime to decide, do not worry about it.”

Sam huffed in response, but grudgingly put the thought of out his mind. He glanced down at himself deprecatingly.

“So I imagine I am going to be here for a while.” He managed dryly. Ratchet snorted in response.

“A while longer, yes.” He replied mildly, “How are you feeling?”

Sam shrugged, “Tired, I guess. Worn out. Can I have some water?”

Ratchet looked at him considerately, “A little, but be careful. You have a nasogastric tube in, and I don’t want you to vomit.”

Sam raised his hand to his face, surprised to find that there was indeed a thin tube coming out of his left nostril. The tube was taped to the side of his face, extending over his left ear behind him. How hadn’t he noticed it before?

“You’re heavily medicated.” Ratchet assured him patiently.

The holoform poured him two fingers of water from the pitcher on the over-bed table, and then helped Sam into a sitting position. He accepted the cup gratefully, and took a small sip of water. Sam was immediately thankful for Ratchet’s warning, because the feeling of the tube slithering along the back of his throat made him retch, hard. All at once, Sam was back in the factory pinned beneath Megatron, as Scalpel’s drone slid up the back of his throat, choking him. Ratchet’s presence was in his mind in an instant, pulling Sam out of the flashback and back to himself before he could panic. He blinked in disorientation at the abrupt transition, breathing heavily.

“Sorry, that caught me by surprise.” He apologized roughly.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Sam.” Ratchet replied with conviction. The medic’s mental presence receded away from him, becoming strangely muted.

“Can you take this out?” Sam asked, motioning to the nasogastric tube, “Now, please?”

Ratchet nodded in assent, and his holoform started to peel the adhesive off Sam’s face. Once the adhesive was free, he sent a pulse of warning across their bond, and then started to pull out the tubing. Sam felt it snake its way up his entire throat, and he grimaced hard at the unwelcome sensation.

“That was unpleasant.” He said dryly, once the tube had been removed. He reached for the water again, gratified when he was able to drink without gagging. The water was room temperature, and it had the same slightly-metallic taste as the rest of the water on base, but in that moment it was the most satisfying thing that he’d ever had in his life.

Ratchet moved away to take care of the tubing, and Sam sat quietly as he nursed his water. His thoughts were introspective, and he poked at the bond experimentally, trying to get a sense for its dimensions. It was a curious thing—something that he could see and feel without the senses of sight or touch. As he felt his way along the bond, he became aware of Ratchet’s scrutiny, and he glanced uncertainly at the medic.

“What?”

“Nothing at all. You are doing well.”

Encouraged, Sam continued feeling along the bond until he bumped up against Ratchet’s signature. He paused, taken aback once again by its splendor. He hesitated for only a moment before he _reached_ for it. Ratchet was tolerant, letting him feel his way across the spark signature. It was a different feeling than their bond or Ratchet’s metal presence—it thrummed with life and energy, beautiful and mesmerizing. Enraptured, Sam _pushed_ forward and immediately found himself caught by the medic.

“No, Sam.” He chastised.

Sam blinked at Ratchet as his bipedal mode crossed the room towards him.

“What?” He asked confusedly.

“What you just did is considered highly… rude amongst our people.”

Sam felt a rush of embarrassment at the medic’s words, although he had no idea what it was, exactly, that he did wrong. He murmured a soft apology and tried to pull away, but Ratchet’s presence held him closely. 

“Your apology is appreciated but unnecessary, Sam. You did not know any better.” Ratchet’s presence thrummed reassuringly, and then let him go, “A spark signature is deeply personal, and it is rude to press in as you did, without permission.”

Sam was blushing now, although he could feel that the medic wasn’t upset with him. Ratchet gave him a gentle _push_ and Sam crossed back across their bond.

The medic regarded him thoughtfully.

“Are you hungry?”

Sam hesitated. He was exhausted and worn out, and he felt fuzzy from the pain medication, but he could eat. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“That is not the enthusiastic agreement that I was hoping for.” Ratchet replied dryly, “Lay back and rest. You may eat later, when you’re hungry.”

Sam sighed, pulling the blankets up to his chin as he tried to get comfortable. It was a difficult thing to do, with his shoulder and the IV and the coolness of the medical ward. He laid there for a long time, half-awake and drifting, when a thought brought him surging back to full awareness. He struggled up onto his elbows.

“Bumblebee, is he okay?”

Ratchet’s bipedal form froze, and Sam could feel his tense wariness from across their bond.

“Bumblebee is fine. He was upset when you died, of course, but he calmed down after you on-lined.”

Sam frowned at the medic, who was fiddling with some equipment on the other side of the room. He could _feel_ the half-truth of the medic’s words.

“What aren’t you telling me, Ratchet?”

The medic turned to regard him with serious optics, “You are too weak to worry about Bumblebee right now. Do as I say, and get some rest.”

Sam felt a flash of consternation at being so casually dismissed. He opened his mouth to argue when he felt an admonishing _tap_ across their bond.

“Don’t argue with me.”

“Don’t treat me like a child.” He snapped back.

“I’ll treat you like one if you continue to behave like one.”

Sam felt righteous indignation flood through him in an instant. Behaving like a child? All things considered, he thought he was coping rather well, _thank-you-very-much._ Before Sam could say something really rude, he felt a pulse of consternation from the medic.

“Of course you’re coping well. Please accept my apologies, Sam.” Ratchet in-vented slowly, “It has been many millions of years since I shared a Creator bond with anyone, let alone a sentient adult. There will be an adjustment period, for both of us.”

Sam stared at the medic in surprise, taken aback by the genuine contriteness in his demeanor—until now, he wasn’t completely sure whether the crotchety old medic even knew how to feel remorseful. He felt a flare of irritation across their bond, and winced apologetically in response.

Ratchet ex-vented slowly, as though trying to salvage the last dregs of his patience, “I suppose I deserved that.”

Sam was barely listening, their interaction raising another concern.

“I don’t know how it works for you guys, but people think a lot of weird, random shit that they would never say out loud. If you’re going to get huffy every time I think something unflattering, this is going to get really awkward, really fast.”

Ratchet stared at him considerately, “I will do my best to give you your mental space, as it were, but that is not always possible. You are very… loud.”

Sam frowned, taken aback, “Loud?”

Ratchet made a soft noise in acknowledgement.

“We can communicate across the neural network in several ways. The first is a ping, a direct communique from one mechanoid to another. These are private by default, but they can be encrypted to add additional security. The second is a message sent from one mechanoid to several others, such as our tacnet or the open communications channel. As with private messages, these vary in their level of encryption. The last is an unsecure, unencrypted message, which can be accessed by anyone within range.”

Sam felt a sense of dread curl in his stomach, “What are you saying? Am I broadcasting everything I’m thinking?”

Ratchet hesitated, “Yes and no. As with any newspark, your internal communications have been sent over an unsecured and unencrypted channel, but I have been firewalling you from the moment you on-lined.”

Sam tilted his head, frowning confusedly. “Firewalling?”

“Exactly as the word suggests. I have established a series of medical-grade blocks between you and the rest of the neural network. If these were not in place, your transmissions would be detectable by anyone within range.”

“Wait, so all of this isn’t limited to you and me? Will I eventually be able to communicate with others?”

Ratchet nodded, “In so far as I can tell.”

Sam twisted to look up at the medic, but the motion caused pain to lance through his shoulder. He groaned low in his throat, raising a hand to press against the gauze. Ratchet was there in an instant, a hypodermic needle already extending from his servo. He took Sam’s arm firmly, and injected the amber-colored fluid into the IV on the back of Sam’s hand.

Sam sighed heavily as liquid bliss stole up his arm with every beat of his heart.

“Does that mean I can talk with Bee?” He asked sleepily. At Ratchet’s affirmative nod, he asked, “What about the comm channel? And the tacnet? Will that work too?”

Ratchet huffed in exasperation, “Perhaps. As I said earlier, we will test the extent of your connection to the neural network after you have healed.”

Sam felt the edges of his consciousness blurring away, and he struggled to stay awake.

“Yeah, but—“

“Oh for Primus’ sake.” Ratchet groused. Sam felt the medic’s mental presence focus intently, then he felt an abrupt _push_, and the medical bay telescoped away as he fell into a deep sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I sound like a broken record, but I truly appreciate all of the comments and kudos. I have felt discouraged by this story a dozen times, but your support has helped me push through. You guys are amazing.

“Ma?”

Sam craned his neck around the corner, glancing into the living room. The television was on, a low drone in the background, but his parents were nowhere to be seen. He toed off his shoes, and dropped his keys in the dish beside the front door.

“Ma, I’m home.”

He walked into the living room, looking around. There was an empty wine glass on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn on his father’s chair, but his parents weren’t there. He padded across the room and stepped into the hallway, staring up the staircase. The second floor was dark and quiet. All of the lights were off, even the nightlight outside of the bathroom. Sam felt the first stirrings of unease.

“Mojo! Frankie! C’mere.” He yelled, straining to hear the familiar scramble of little paws against the hardwood floor. There was nothing—the house was completely silent. He walked down the hall and entered the kitchen, glancing around confusedly. It was after curfew, where were they? 

He walked around the kitchen island, stepping over the Allspark shard burning hotly on the floor, and glanced into the backyard. His dad’s car was in the driveway, but there was no sign of his parents anywhere. A strange sense of dread began building in his gut as he made his way back down the hallway. He paused, staring up the staircase again to the second story.

“If this is a prank, then ha-ha. You got me.” He called up the stairs.

Silence.

His heart started to beat harder in his chest. Something was wrong, something was really wrong. He reached out, placing his hand against the bannister railing and started walking up the steps. As he ascended the stairs, the darkness and the quiet seemed to intensify. He stopped abruptly, and pulled his cellphone out of his pocket. He thumbed open the contact list and scrolled through the names as he looked for his parents’ number: _Bumblebee, Dave Carter, Cliffjumper, Hot Rod, Megatron, Optimus Prime—_

Sam frowned, his parents’ contact was missing from the list. He thumbed the dialer, when a soft scrambling sound caught his attention. His head snapped up and he squinted into the darkness of the second story—it was inky black, the glow from his cellphone only illuminated to the edge of the landing.

“Mojo?” He whispered, his heart in his throat.

_//Sam, this isn’t real.//_

He jerked around at the sound of the voice, staring back down the staircase.

“Hello?”

_//You’re dreaming, Sam. You aren’t in California, you’re at NEST.//_

Behind him, the sound of scrambling intensified. He turned around, watching as Scalpel’s bloody red optics separated from the pitch-blackness of the landing. Adrenaline surged, and he stiffened in panic—

Sam blinked confusedly as he abruptly found himself not in his suburban home, but in Ratchet’s medical bay. He breathed in a shaky breath, his thundering heartbeat slowing as the dream faded away. He could feel Ratchet’s presence through their bond, attentive and inquisitive. Sam glanced up at the medic, who was standing a short distance away.

“That’s some trick.” He rasped, voice rough with sleep.

“That was an informative experience.” Ratchet admitted, “I have read volumes about the physiological aspect of human dreaming, especially as it relates to sleep disturbances. To experience it myself, however, was another thing entirely.”

Sam groaned as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

“Yeah, it’s wild that humans spend a third of our lives vividly hallucinating.” He agreed, and then something occurred to him, “Don’t Autobots dream?”

Ratchet tilted his helm at him considerately.

“We process memory files when we re-charge, but it is a simple act of organizing them appropriately, and filing them away. We do not experience the images, emotions, and sensations that humans do.” The medic hesitated for a moment, “I can better understand now the struggles you experienced after Egypt.”

Sam shrugged unthinkingly, grimacing hard as the motion caused his shoulder to flare painfully.

“Yeah, it wasn’t a fun time. Nothing like experiencing the worst things that your subconscious can imagine in gruesome detail every night.”

Ratchet’s holoform materialized on the berth beside him, placing a restraining hand on his chest. Obligingly, Sam laid back against the mattress, pulling the blankets halfway up his chest as he did so. The holoform reached towards the over-bed table, retrieving two familiar paper cups and handing them to Sam in a smooth motion. Sam swallowed the pills with a mouthful of water, without even bothering to ask what they were.

“I’m going to change your bandages now, and then you can have something to eat.” Ratchet explained, and his holoform pulled the over-bed table closer. Sam nodded, glancing at his shoulder curiously as the bandages were peeled away. He winced at the sight: a long row of staples were knit into his skin below his clavicle, extending from his shoulder halfway to his throat. The skin was badly bruised, a tapestry of mottled navy and purple and green.

“He really did a number on me.” Sam murmured as Ratchet’s holoform cleaned and dressed the suture site.

“He did.” Was Ratchet’s terse reply.

When Ratchet’s holoform finished bandaging his shoulder, his bipedal mode retrieved the filthy bandages and took them away. Sam glanced down at his bare chest, and lifted the blankets inquisitively. As he expected, he was completely naked. The catheter took him by surprise, however, and Sam pulled the blankets up to his chest.

“Can I have some clothes, please?” He asked, trying not to sound plaintive.

“I’ll get you a hospital gown, one moment.” Ratchet replied, and then returned shortly thereafter with a familiar-looking gown that he helped pull over Sam’s body. Feeling marginally less vulnerable, Sam settled back against the mattress.

“How long do I have to be here?” He asked, trying not to feel embarrassed.

Ratchet glanced at him, sending a pulse of exasperation through their bond.

“I’m a medical officer, Sam. Bodies are just bodies to me, human or Autobot. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Sorry, I can’t help it. People are strange about modesty.” He replied, but the feeling of _honesty_ from Ratchet helped to assuage him.

“So I have come to learn.” Ratchet intoned dryly, “To answer to your question, you should be fit to return to your apartment within a few days, a week at most. Your physical injuries are healing well and your spark signature is nearly stable enough to let you back into the wild, as it were.”

Sam regarded the medic curiously, “When can I see the guys?”

“Not for a while yet. I will be easing you back into normalcy, beginning with a number of one-on-one interactions to see how you respond to others on the neural network. Prime has agreed to assist me tomorrow, if you continue to improve.”

Sam glanced at him curiously, “Optimus? Why not Bumblebee?”

Ratchet regarded him for a long moment, “Suffice to say, that would not be wise. Optimus is a Creator mech in his own right, with far more experience than Bumblebee with newsparks.”

Sam lifted his good shoulder in a lighthearted shrug.

“Whatever you think, Doctor.” He replied dryly, “I defer to your medical opinion.”

Ratchet snorted, “That’s a first. Did you sustain a head injury during the attack?”

Sam stared at the medic incredulously for the space of a heartbeat before he started laughing.

“Did you just make a joke? Do I need to notify Prowl or something, to make sure this gets noted down somewhere?”

Rather than deigning to reply, Ratchet scoffed loudly and walked across the room to his workbench. He fiddled with a piece of equipment with his back to him, but Sam could feel the faint trace of exasperated amusement across their bond. Sam reached forward and grabbed the pitcher on the over-bed table, pouring himself a glass of water. They stayed like that, in companionable silence, for an interminable time. Sam amused himself by exploring the bond between them. The more he worked at it, the more he was able to get a sense for its character and dimensions. He was aware of Ratchet’s attention on him, but the medic did not disturb him.

A short while later, Sam was interrupted from his reverie by the sound of an approaching engine. His head snapped up, turning towards the medical bay doors in surprise. The engine stopped a good deal away from the hangar, rumbling lowly as a door opened and closed. He could make out the sound of footsteps approaching, but he paid no attention to the noise. He was captivated by the fact that he could almost feel whoever it was in the corridor, their presence a faint but tantalizing _thrum_ in his mind. Mesmerized by the feeling, Sam leaned forward instinctually—only to find himself intercepted by Ratchet’s mental presence. He could feel Ratchet’s surprise and exasperated resignation across their bond. He opened his mouth to protest when Sam felt the medic focus intently, and the enticing presence in the hallway disappeared. He glanced across the room at him, looking for an explanation, when Dave Carter stepped around the medbay doors. The personal aid was impeccably dressed, as usual, and came bearing a cafeteria tray of food. Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, mindful of his shoulder, and smiled across the room at him.

“Good evening, Sam!” Dave greeted cheerfully, “Good to see you up and about.”

“Well, up anyway.” Sam replied good-naturedly, “What time is it?”

“It’s 11 o’clock at night.” He replied, to Sam’s surprise. He had completely lost all sense of time since the attack. Ratchet approached the personal aid, kneeling down and extending his servo towards him. Dave stepped on, carefully balancing the tray with one hand while holding onto a digit with the other. Ratchet brought him to the berth on which Sam’s gurney was positioned, and Dave stepped towards him.

“How are you feeling?” He asked earnestly, as he placed the tray on the over-bed table. Sam glanced down, unsurprised to see the same bland meal that Ratchet had ordered for him after the Seekers’ attack.

“I’m fine, nothing I can’t handle.” He replied reassuringly, and Dave had the grace to appear convinced by his words. Sam glanced behind the agent, towards the corridor, “Who drove you?”

“Bumblebee.” Dave replied, and Sam turned to look at Ratchet hopefully.

“No.” Ratchet said automatically, “He’s not supposed to be anywhere near the medical bay in the first place.”

The medic’s tone brooked no argument, and Sam signed resignedly.

“Tell him I said hi, would you?” Sam asked the agent, who nodded. Sam reached forward, grabbing a slice of toast before glancing back at Dave.

“Did I miss anything interesting?”

“Nothing in particular.” Dave said, and then he winced apologetically, “You should know that we withdrew you from your classes after the attack. We weren’t sure how long you were going to be out of commission.”

Sam sighed heavily, unsurprised but disappointed by the news.

“That’s okay Dave, I understand. Thanks for taking care of that for me.”

“No problem, Sam. Happy to help.” He said, glancing down at his wristwatch, “I would love to stay and chat, but I have a video conference with China in forty minutes. I am glad you’re feeling better.”

Sam nodded at the older man, who stepped back onto Ratchet’s palm. He walked Dave out of the medical bay, and Sam could hear a low murmur of conversation before Bumblebee’s engines receded down the corridor. Sam felt a strange pang as the noise faded away, an almost tangible feeling of loss that left him confused and wrong-footed. Ratchet returned shortly thereafter, watching him surreptitiously from across the room. Sam glanced over at the medic with a question on his face.

“What?”

Ratchet rumbled in response, “Nothing to concern yourself with tonight. We will talk more when Optimus arrives tomorrow.”

Sam shrugged, peeling the banana, “Suit yourself. I don’t have the energy to play twenty questions right now.”

At his words, Ratchet turned around and regarded him closely, “How do you feel?”

“You sound like a broken record, Ratch.” Sam complained, but there was no heat in his words, “I’m tired and sore, I’ll live.”

Ratchet gave a disgruntled snort.

“Finish your meal and rest quietly. I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

Sam pushed the feeling of _acquiescence_ through their bond, and then started on his oatmeal. It was lukewarm and cinnamon flavored (not his favorite), but he finished it nevertheless. By the time he worked his way through his applesauce, his body and mind felt heavy with exhaustion. He’d been up for what, three hours? Recuperation was tiring work, it seemed.

Sam sighed, pushing the over-bed table aside and settling down on the mattress. It was not long before his eyelids were drooping, and he pulled the blankets up to his neck, burrowing his nose into the soft material. He drifted like that, warm and comfortable and full, for a long while. Eventually, his weariness won out over his stubbornness, and he fell asleep.

This time, his dreams did not trouble him.

* * *

Ratchet stared down at him, his expression calculating and serious, as he completed his third sensor scan. Now that Sam had a bond with the Autobot medic, the scans were somehow even less pleasant than before. He could simultaneously feel them on his body and in his mind, and it was a sensation that he could do without.

Ratchet scoffed, “It’s not that bad.”

“I don’t recall asking your opinion.” Sam replied, peevishly.

Ratchet snorted in response, “You’re healing well. I’ll schedule your surgery for the end of next week.”

“What does that involve exactly? I’ve never had surgery before.” He asked uncertainly.

“You have had surgery twice before, as a matter of fact. Once to insert the plates in your shoulder, and then again to adjust them. The next surgery is relatively straightforward. We will remove the plates and stabilize your injury with Cybertronian polymer. It should take no longer than forty-five minutes, total.”

Sam nodded slowly, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“It’s a minor surgery, Sam. You’ll be fine.”

Sam glanced up at the medic in exasperation, “You’ll be there, of course I’ll be fine. That doesn’t mean I’m excited about it.”

He was surprised by the swell of emotion across the bond, which was cut off as abruptly as it had appeared. Ratchet crossed his arms across his chassis, staring down at him considerately for a long moment.

“Both your physical condition and your spark signature are significantly improved today. If you are amenable, I will ask Prime to attend you.”

Sam glanced up at the medic in confusion, “Come again?”

Ratchet huffed in frustration.

“Your language can be maddeningly imprecise.” He grumbled, before clarifying, “I would like Prime to assist me in testing your connection to the neural-network.”

Sam frowned, shifting uncertainly. “Is it dangerous?” He asked. What he meant was, will it hurt?

“In theory, no to both questions. If you were a sparkling, the answer would be a resounding negative, but as you are human I cannot say with complete certainty.”

“Whatever you think, Ratchet.” Sam replied after a moment, trying to ignore the anxiety that was twisting up his insides.

Ratchet regarded him closely, considerately, “I believe you are stable enough to make the attempt.”

Sam shrugged, “Okay, I trust you. Let’s do it.”

Ratchet nodded slowly, tilting his helm in the manner that Sam had come to learn meant that he was using his internal communications array. After a moment, Ratchet’s optics shuttered briefly.

“He will arrive shortly.”

Desperate for a distraction, Sam picked up his tablet as he leaned back against the mattress. He had woken up early that morning, just before oh-six hundred hours. Once again, he had slept like a dead man, completely oblivious to the comings and goings of the medical bay. The morning had dragged on, with nothing to do but lie there and rest. It was not long before Sam realized that he was bored out of his mind—curious alien mental bonds, notwithstanding. His restless frustration had driven Ratchet around the bend, and eventually the medic had asked Dave Carter to bring Sam something to do. The personal assistant had obliged, showing up at the medical bay at half past ten in the morning with his tablet and an assortment of books. Sam was halfway through a level of his game, trying and failing to keep from speculating about what was to come, when he heard the familiar sound of Optimus’ engine in the corridor. Moments later, the Prime entered the medical bay, transforming as soon as he came to a stop.

“Good morning, Sam.” Optimus rumbled as he approached, “I am glad to see you.”

Sam crooked a smile at the Autobot leader as he pushed himself into a sitting position with his good arm. Ratchet crossed the room to join them.

“It’s good to see you too, Optimus.”

Optimus inclined his helm, and Sam could feel the full weight of his regard. “Ratchet has informed me of your condition. You are healing well.”

Sam glanced at the Autobot medic, “Yeah well, he’d kill me if I didn’t, so...”

Ratchet snorted air through his intakes, “I would do no such thing. I see no reason to make additional work for myself.”

“Oh yeah, the paperwork would be brutal.” Sam agreed, grinning at him.

Optimus tilted his helm, optics bright, “It heartens me considerably to see you in such good temper, Sam.”

“Only because you’re not on the receiving end of it all day, believe me.” Ratchet replied dryly.

Ratchet’s sarcasm would normally have needled him, but Sam could feel his fond exasperation through their bond. He glanced between the two Autobots in amusement, before he remembered why Optimus had come in the first place. Anxiety swelled in his gut again, unwelcome but persistent.

“So, what do we do now?” He asked, hating the uncertainty in his voice.

Ratchet glanced down at him, his demeanor suddenly all business-like.

“I am going to lower the firewalls enough to let Optimus ping you. Let me know at once if anything feels uncomfortable.”

Sam nodded, waiting expectantly. At first, he could feel nothing out of the ordinary. Then, there was a curious _lightening_ sensation, as though a shroud had been lifted from his mind. Suddenly, his mental presence was capable of stretching beyond the confines of the Creator bond. His eyebrows rose in surprise as he became aware of Optimus’ spark signature. Whereby Ratchet’s signature was a warm glow, ancient and lovely, Optimus was something else entirely. His mental presence was brilliant and ethereal, shining like a beacon in Sam’s mind. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing that Sam had ever seen in his life.

He felt a touch of amusement in his mind, although whether it was from Optimus or Ratchet, he could not say.

“You humble me, Sam.” Optimus intoned gently.

“This is wild.” He breathed.

“Optimus, if you would?” Ratchet prompted, staring at Sam with intense scrutiny.

Sam could feel Optimus’ presence shift, and then there was a strange sensation in his mind—like a nudge and a shiver all at once. He blinked in surprise up at the two Autobots.

“I can feel that.” He said. The sensation lingered, insistently. 

“That’s good, Sam.” Ratchet praised, “Can you focus on it for me?”

Sam frowned, his concentration turning inwards. After a few fumbling attempts, he felt the _snap_ of a connection being established. All at once, Optimus’ calm and reserved presence was _inside_ his mind. It was an intensely unusual feeling, and he pulled back instinctively in response. He was distantly aware of Optimus’ patient regard as the Autobot leader gave him time to adjust to the new sensations.

After a long moment, Sam let out a shaky breath, “Hey Optimus.”

_//Hello Sam.//_ Optimus’ words were warm and rich in his mind, and Sam started in surprise. He and Ratchet did not speak across their bond, at least not comprehensibly. Instead, they shared a flow of impressions and feelings that took the place of words. To hear Prime’s voice in his head was a distinctly disconcerting feeling.

_//Try to reply.//_ Ratchet directed, and Sam started in surprise for a second time. Ratchet’s mental voice was not dissimilar to his spoken one, and yet it was somehow entirely different. It took a moment for the meaning of his words to filter through Sam’s astonishment, and then he frowned in concentration.

_//Like this?// _He asked, hesitantly. 

He felt a warm glow of approval, which he realized had come from Optimus. It was disorienting to have two presences in his mind simultaneously, but if he concentrated, then he could distinguish between them.

_//Well done, Sam.//_ Ratchet said, and then speaking aloud he asked, “How does it feel?”

Sam tilted his head considerately. His mind felt full, almost crowded, but there was no pain or discomfort. He could feel Optimus’ mental presence nearby, and Ratchet’s further away.

“Okay, I think.” He replied slowly, “Unbelievably weird, but okay.”

Optimus rumbled a quiet laugh, and then his presence withdrew completely.

“Alright Sam, now you try.” Ratchet prompted, and Sam stared at him in confusion.

“Try what?”

“Pinging Optimus.” He clarified, as though it were obvious what he had meant.

“I don’t even know what that word means, Ratchet.” Sam said in exasperation, “Let alone how to do it.”

The medic nodded in acquiescence, and then Sam felt his presence across their bond. There was a gentle touch, a feeling of _pressure_, and then the knowledge was there in his mind.

“What did you just do?” He asked in surprise.

“A data transfer.”

“Did it work?”

Ratchet snorted, “You tell me.”

Sam turned his attention inwards once again, focusing on Optimus’ mental presence. He _pinged_ the Autobot leader as though he had been doing it all of his life. A moment later, he felt Optimus’ presence in his mind once again.

“Yeah, it worked.” Sam said dryly, “That’s insane. What else can you transfer?”

“I do not know. We will experiment when you’re feeling better.”

“I feel fine.” Sam said impatiently, but Ratchet shook his helm in response.

“No, you’ve accomplished more than enough for today. I don’t want you to overdo it. Close your connection with Optimus, and I’ll replace the firewalls.”

Sam felt a flicker of irritation at Ratchet’s bossy tone, but Optimus’ presence nudged him gently.

_//Do as Ratchet says, Sam.//_

He huffed a sigh, and then _pinched_ the connection between them closed. Immediately, Sam felt the strange shroud-like weight of the firewalls in his mind, and his mental space shrank back to the dimensions of the Creator bond. After the freedom that he had just enjoyed, the bond felt restrictive and confining. He glanced up at Optimus, feeling disconcerted that he could no longer perceive the other’s commanding presence. Prime returned his gaze, warm approval written all over his expression.

“That exceeded my expectations.” Ratchet admitted considerately, “We will try again tomorrow with Prowl.”

Sam glanced at him in surprise, “Why Prowl?”

“Although he lacks Creator programming, Prowl is exceptionally controlled. After Optimus, he is the next logical choice.”

Sam frowned, “When can I see Bumblebee?”

Ratchet glanced sidelong at Optimus, so quickly that Sam almost missed it. He could feel the medic’s sudden tension across their bond, although his expression was carefully composed. Optimus looked down at him for a long moment, his countenance one of solemn consideration, before he spoke.

“If your time with Prowl goes well, you may see Bumblebee afterwards.”

Ratchet looked at Prime sharply, snapping a protest in clipped Cybertronian. Optimus turned slightly to regard the medic, before shaking his helm minutely.

“It is not our place to interfere.” He rumbled softly.

Sam looked between them in building confusion and anxiety. With sudden clarity, Sam realized that they had been purposefully keeping him away from Bumblebee for reasons that had nothing to do with his new spark signature.

“What’s going on?” He demanded, his voice sharper than intended. Optimus turned to look at him again, and Sam could feel the heavy weight of the Autobot leader’s regard.

“I told you once that I would not withhold information that pertains to you. Do you remember?”

Sam nodded slowly, “Yes.”

“As I told you at the time, there are two stipulations to that promise.”

“Yes, I remember. Which is this, then? One or two?”

“Both.” Optimus rumbled, regretfully. Sam frowned at him in confusion, but Optimus was speaking again before he could voice a protest, “I cannot say more until tomorrow. My apologies, Sam.”

He was silent for a long while, wrestling with the urge to demand that the Autobot leader stop jerking him around and tell him what was going on. Eventually, he was able to set that impulse aside. He breathed out a heavy sigh and shook his head in resignation.

“Alright, fine.” He said, “I trust you.”

“Thank-you.” Optimus replied.

“Yes, well, given that you are content to disregard my medical advice, I invite you to leave my medical bay at your earliest convenience.” Ratchet snapped at Optimus, who inclined his helm in response. Sam was taken aback by the medic’s tone, which bordered on insubordinate. He had never heard Ratchet speak like that to Prime, in all the time that he had known the Autobots. Optimus glanced back towards him, nodding his helm in farewell, and then he strode from the medical bay without another word.

Ratchet was a tempest for the rest of the afternoon. He worked on his experiments in silence, the occasional slamming of equipment or tools against his workbench the only sound in the medical bay. Sam could feel nothing of him through their bond. The medic had withdrawn behind a solid wall that let nothing past—not a single thought, feeling, or impression. After two days of Ratchet’s constant mental presence, his absence was deeply discomforting.

He sat there in silence, anxiety building in his stomach every time the medic spat another angry-sounding string of Cybertronian. Unable to bear the tension any longer, Sam reached tentatively across the bond, brushing against the block between them.

“Are you angry with me?” He asked uncertainly.

Ratchet paused in his ministrations, standing still for a long while. Eventually, the medic turned around, regarding him with impossibly bright optics.

“No, Sam. I am not mad at you. I am mad at the situation I find myself in.”

“I’m sorry.” He apologized, though for what he could not say.

Something softened in Ratchet’s optics, and the block between them lowered enough for Sam to feel the gentle thrum of _reassurance_ from the medic. 

“You have done nothing to give offense, Sam. You should get some rest. Do you require anything?”

Sam shifted uncertainly. Ratchet was still keeping him at a mental arms’ length away and the tension had not left the medic’s frame.

“No, I’m okay. Thank-you.” He murmured, “I’ll just get some sleep, then.”

Ratchet nodded at him tersely, returning to his workbench. Sam laid back against the mattress, pulling the blankets up around his shoulders. He laid like that, anxious and confused, for a long while. For the first time since he had come out of stasis, sleep would not come. Eventually, he became aware of Ratchet’s mental presence regarding him contritely. Before he could voice a question, the medic’s presence was in his mind. There was a gentle touch, a feeling of _pressure_, and then Sam was fast asleep.

* * *

Ratchet’s temper had marginally improved by the time Sam woke up, but the medic was still terse and reserved. Sam withdrew as far away as the bond would allow, trying his best not to encroach upon the medic’s mental space. Ratchet changed his bandages and tended to his needs with his usual air of medical professionalism, but it was obvious that he was deep in thought.

When Prowl arrived hours later, it was almost a relief.

The black and white strategist stepped into the medical bay sometime after Sam had finished his evening meal. Ratchet set down the piece of equipment that he had been working on all afternoon, and nodded towards Prowl in greeting. Prowl returned the nod curtly, and then crossed the room to stand a short distance away from Sam’s gurney.

“Good evening. Sam. I have been following Ratchet’s updates regarding your recovery with great interest. You have exceeded all expectations.”

Sam was taken aback by the strategist’s words. It was not that Sam thought Prowl disliked him exactly, but the strategist had an aloof and dispassionate demeanor. It surprised Sam to know that he had been paying attention to his recovery any more than strictly necessary.

“Uh, thank-you.” He said hesitantly.

Ratchet stopped whatever he was doing on the workbench, and approached the two of them. Without preamble, he glanced at Sam and asked, “Are you ready?”

Sam pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to tamp down on the upswing of anxiety. The block separating him from Ratchet’s mental presence fell away, and he felt a brush of reassurance across the bond. Once again, Sam felt a curious _lightening_ sensation, and the confines of the Creator bond fell away. Sam pulled back, enjoying the feeling of _freedom_ it gave him, when he noticed Prowl’s spark signature. He blinked in surprise at the strategist, completely taken aback. Prowl’s signature glowed a cool blue in his mind, like the crispness of a winter sunrise. It was beautiful, and clear, and _controlled_.

Ratchet inclined his helm towards the strategist, “Prowl, if you could?”

Prowl was regarding him with open curiosity. After a moment, Sam felt the familiar _pinging_ sensation and he reached for it without hesitation. Instantly, Prowl’s presence filled his mind and Sam pulled back in surprise. Whereas Ratchet and Optimus had felt familiar and warm, Prowl’s presence was distinctly different. It was crisp, like the feeling he got from chewing mint gum—cool and strangely refreshing.

“How remarkable.” Prowl murmured, optics bright, “You have a most unusual signature Sam, unlike anything I have encountered before.”

Prowl’s intense scrutiny was obvious in the way his mental presence shifted this way and that, as though he were examining him. Sam huffed a laugh.

“Right back at you Doublemint.”

Prowl tilted his helm slightly, a manner that indicated he was researching the reference, and then a faint smile curved his faceplates.

“An interesting analogy.”

“You are doing well, Sam.” Ratchet said, and then Sam felt another _pinging_ sensation. He looked at the medic in confusion.

“To date, our interactions have occurred exclusively over the Creator bond. I want to see how you respond to a multi-nodal comm channel.”

Sam only understood about half of what the medic had said, but he obediently answered the incoming ping. Ratchet’s presence entered his mind in a dizzying wash of vertigo. Sam winced in pain at the reverberating feedback he experienced as Ratchet’s presence through their bond echoed back his presence through the comm channel. Immediately, Sam felt a flash of consternation from the medic, which was amplified painfully as it bounced between the two points of connection. There was a brief pause, and then Ratchet replaced the block separating them across their bond.

Sam sighed in relief as the feeling of feedback disappeared in an instant.

“My apologies, Sam. I should have foreseen that.”

He was aware of Prowl’s mental presence, observing their interactions with mounting interest.

“It’s okay, Ratch. We’re learning as we go.”

He felt an assessing prod from the medic, like a mental pat down, and then his words were in Sam’s mind.

_//Do you feel any other discomfort?//_

_//No, nothing.//_ Sam replied, and then he realized something, _//It’s easier having two of you in my mind this time. Less confusing.//_

Sam felt rather than heard Ratchet’s considering hum. _//That is good, Sam. It will continue to get easier as you practice.//_

_//This has been a remarkable experience.//_ Prowl murmured, closing the connection between them and withdrawing from Sam’s mind. Ratchet followed suit, and a moment later Sam found himself back within the confines of the Creator bond.

“Thank-you for your assistance Prowl. That will be all for today.” Ratchet said, curtly dismissing the strategist as though he weren’t his superior officer. Prowl inclined his helm in acknowledgement, before turning his bright blue optics on Sam.

“Primus speed the remainder of your recovery.” He intoned solemnly, before transforming into his alt mode, a black and white Dodge Charger police cruiser. The sight gave Sam an uncomfortable turn in his stomach, but Prowl was gone before he could dwell on it.

Sam spent the remainder of the evening trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He read, or played on his tablet, or rested, all while keeping a respectful distance from Ratchet’s mental presence. The medic was absorbed in his work, deep in thought, summarily ignoring him until it was time to change his bandages. Ratchet’s holoform worked quickly, and it was no time at all before he instructed Sam to put his hospital gown back on. Sam murmured in acknowledgement, pulling the gown on with his good arm and settling back down on the mattress.

Unexpectedly, Ratchet’s holoform did not disappear immediately, as it had every other time it interacted with him that day. Sam glanced up uncertainly, surprised to see a frustrated expression on its face.

“Sam, I realize that I have been in a foul temper today. Thank-you for respecting my privacy, insofar as you could do so.”

“No problem, Ratch.” He said quietly, hesitantly, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

The frustrated expression on the holoform’s face became strained, a fleeting expression that was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.

“No, Sam. There is nothing to be done but to see things through and weather any potential consequences.”

Sam frowned in confusion, but evidentially Ratchet was not in the mood to elaborate.

“It’s late, you should rest. Tomorrow will be a busy day.” He said gruffly, as his holoform disappeared.

Sam didn’t reply, instead rolling onto his good side so that he faced away from the medic. He laid like that for an interminable time, confusion and anxiety keeping him awake long after their conversation. This time, however, the medic did not intercede on his behalf, and it was a long while before sleep claimed him.

The following morning saw no improvement in Ratchet’s mood. The medic was cagey and distant, and Sam felt only the occasional flash of emotion through their bond—frustration, impotence, and concern. It was just before noon when Ratchet stiffened abruptly and then sighed.

“They are on their way.” He said, apropos of nothing. Sam interpreted this to mean Optimus and Bumblebee were coming, so he remained silent. The medic walked over to stand at his bedside, arms crossed across his chassis and a neutral expression on his face. It was only the matter of a few minutes before Sam could hear their engines in the corridor, and he felt his heart jump into his throat. Moments later, the familiar-looking Peterbilt truck and the Chevy Camaro rolled into sight, transforming as soon as they entered the medical bay. Sam’s eyes were drawn to Bumblebee, who quickly crossed the space between them. The scout crouched down by the berth so that they were eye-level. His optics glowed with barely restrained emotion.

“Sam, I have missed you.” He murmured, reaching forward a servo as though to touch him before freezing in mid-air. He withdrew his arm, tossing an apologetic-sounding warble in Ratchet’s direction.

“I missed you too, buddy.” Sam said, a faint smile on his face.

Ratchet’s scathing voice interjected before Bumblebee could reply, “Prime, I want my objection noted.”

Optimus tilted his helm solemnly, “It is done.”

Ratchet ex-vented loudly, turning to Bumblebee.

“Do you understand the potential ramifications of what we are about to do?”

“It has already happened Ratchet, you are postponing the inevitable.” Optimus chided, and Sam stared at the three Autobots in mounting frustration.

“Does anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” He demanded sharply.

To his surprise, it was Ratchet who answered him. 

“It would be easier to just show you.” Ratchet grudgingly replied. With an air of resignation, Ratchet nodded to Optimus. The Autobot leader turned to regard him, his optics bright and solemn, and then Sam felt a familiar _pinging_ sensation in his mind. With a great deal of trepidation, Sam allowed the connection with Optimus to blossom to life. A moment later, Sam felt the mental block separating him from Ratchet disappear. He had only a second to revel in the medic’s familiar mental presence, before he was free of the confines of the Creator bond.

It happened instantaneously.

Sam’s vision whited out, in a flash as brilliant as the energy release from a thermonuclear explosion. For a second there was nothing—no sight or sound or sensation—and then his world narrowed to a single point in a sea of incandescence. It was indescribably, _painfully_ beautiful. Familiar and warm, fierce and gentle, possessive and reverent. It filled him in a rush, and Sam found himself unable to differentiate where the presence ended and he began.

He knew without being told what had happened. Of course it had happened—it was inevitable, from the moment the Allspark energy had filled his body in Mission City. How could it not? They were meant for one another. The flow of thoughts, sensations, and feelings passed between them in a dizzying rush, and he felt Bumblebee’s mental presence bump against him.

_Hello._ He murmured.

_Hi._ He replied quietly, awestruck.

There was a soft whine from his guardian—his bonded—and Sam pressed around him, reassuring and affectionate. Bumblebee’s response was immediate and non-verbal, but unmistakable.

**_Mine_.**

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, his heart so full that he felt it might explode.

**_Yours._** He agreed, deferential and possessive in equal measures. Sam became aware of the other presences in his mind, but they were inconsequential. Immaterial.

They stayed like that for an interminable time, intertwined so closely that they bled into one another, before he felt Bumblebee withdraw slightly. He gave Sam a gentle nudge, and Sam knew what he wanted without words. Sam frowned, glancing around the dimensionless space of their bond, trying to figure out how to withdraw from it.

_Like so._ Bumblebee said, and as it had with Ratchet, the knowledge materialized in his mind. Sam pulled back until the bond faded away and he was left in the openness of mental space. Bumblebee’s signature was beside him, Optimus’ and Ratchet’s further away. He could feel Ratchet’s intense scrutiny through their bond, but it had lost its angry edge. After a moment, Ratchet _shifted_ and Sam found himself back within the confines of the Creator bond. This time, however, Bumblebee’s signature was easily detectable in the distance—as clear and accessible as it had been in their bond.

Sam opened his eyes, amazed to find the medical bay in exactly the same condition it had been when Optimus and Bumblebee arrived. It somehow seemed sacrilegious that nothing had changed in the physical world, when _everything_ was different inside his mind. He breathed out a shaky sigh, turning a bright smile on Bumblebee.

“What’s a nice mech like you doing in a place like this?” He asked teasingly, feeling Bumblebee’s amusement and Ratchet’s exasperation simultaneously.

“Well, you didn’t give yourself an aneurism.” Ratchet said, considerately, “Much to my surprise.”

Optimus looked at him closely, his expression intense and inscrutable.

“How do you feel, Sam?”

“I’ve never felt better in my life.” He answered honestly, smiling.

Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort, but Sam could feel his cautious optimism through their bond.

“Be that as it may, that is quite enough for one night. Unless you feel the need to circumvent my medical judgment again, Prime?” Ratchet’s tone was cool, but Optimus did not seem offended.

“Not at all, Ratchet. Thank-you for your patience.” The Autobot leader replied, stately and dignified. Bumblebee reached out a servo, and ran a single digit down Sam’s spine in farewell. He shivered at the pleasant sensation, and mimicked it through their bond. He felt Bee’s swell of gratification in response.

“That’s enough.” Ratchet’s sharp voice cut through their reverie, “Bumblebee, if you value your bonded then you will limit your interactions until he adjusts to his changing circumstances.”

To Sam’s surprise, the scout inclined his helm in respectful acknowledgement. Ratchet huffed, mollified by the display of deference, and all too soon both Optimus and Bumblebee were gone. Bee’s mental presence remained nearby, reserved but comfortingly close.

* * *

Ripcord stiffened for the third time in as many days as Sam’s spark signature flared across the neural network. It was faint and elusive but unmistakable, pulsing with Allspark energy. It was simultaneously profane and profound, and Ripcord ground his dentae in frustration. It was a torture that the Autobots would have been unable to devise on their own, to be so close yet so far from that sacred pulse.

He sat on the floor of the small cell in the _Ark, _bound in stasis cuffs and leaning against the back wall of the small space. Ironhide stood beyond the containment field, glaring at him balefully. 

“You’ll tell us what we want to know. Eventually.”

Ripcord snorted, too weak to do anything else. The stasis cuffs were keeping him on the edge of recharge, blocking his access to all but his base functions.

“My conditions remain unchanged, Autobot.”

Ironhide’s optics narrowed dangerously, “You aren’t getting anywhere near him, ever again. Once Ratchet is able, he will get all the information that we desire with a medical hardline.”

Ripcord visibly rolled his optics.

“It is not within Prime’s coding to sanction the torture of a prisoner.”

“Torture?” Ironhide said, his voice lowering an octave in tightly controlled anger, “That would be gentle handling compared to what your kind would do to one of us if we were captured.”

“My conditions remain unchanged.” Ripcord repeated, focusing on the elusive spark signature in the distance. All too soon, it disappeared, hidden back underneath medical-grade blocks. 

“Never.” Ironnhide spat.

“That is not for you to decide. Now give my message to Prime like the good little soldier that you are.”

Ironhide’s low growl reached his sensory array, but Ripcord paid it no mind. Instead, he focused outwards, waiting in anticipation for the next time the Allspark’s signature would flare across the neural network.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much to everyone who left comments/kudos for the last chapter. I don't have the words to articulate how much it means to me. I would have abandoned this story a long time ago if not for all of you.

Sam grimaced as Dr. Lewis lifted his arm, pulling on his injured shoulder. He sat on the hospital gurney in the medical bay, dressed for the first time since the attack, as Dr. Lewis engaged in what could only be described as medically sanctioned torture. When she pulled his left arm across his chest, he hissed in pain.

“That hurts.” He protested sharply.

She glanced at him appraisingly.

“I know, Sam. Not much longer now, you’re doing great.”

Lewis held him by his shoulder and elbow, pulling his arm until the muscles in his back burned, and then she held that position for the count of ten seconds. By the time she moved his arm back to his side, Sam was pale and sweating with strain. When Dr. Lewis had arrived in the medical bay that morning, announcing that Sam was to begin physical therapy immediately, he hadn’t thought anything of it. After less than twenty minutes under her tender ministrations, however, Sam had come to appreciate just how brutal physiotherapy could be. He felt Bumblebee’s presence in his mind, sympathetic and supportive, and Sam brushed against him appreciatively.

Lewis murmured apologetically, and then she lifted his arm until his elbow pointed almost to the ceiling. Sam had to grit his teeth to keep from swearing at her. After ten seconds, she settled his arm in his lap and then extended one hand towards him.

“Grip it with your left, hard as you can.” She instructed, and he obliged. It was surprising difficult to do, as his hand shaky and weak. After five iterations, she nodded approvingly.

“Alright, we’re done for today. Good first session, Sam.”

“Doctor, you and I have very different definitions of good.” He replied crossly. He immediately felt Ratchet’s disapproving _tap_ across their bond, and he glared at the medic who stood watching them a short distance away.

“I know it’s uncomfortable, but we must be proactive and persistent with your physical therapy. Given your accelerated healing, there is a real risk that your shoulder could set improperly.”

She helped him into the arm sling that Ratchet had given him that morning, fastening it over his good shoulder. He huffed, leaning back against the mattress gratefully.

“I want you to practice the exercises that I showed you three times a day, morning, noon, and night. Other than that, don’t use your left arm at all.”

He nodded at her in understanding, and she turned expectantly to Ratchet. The medic stepped forward, extending his servo towards her, and she stepped on immediately. It had been less than four hours since his arm had been immobilized, and it was already proving to be a frustrating inconvenience. Ratchet had removed the IV and the catheter that morning, to Sam’s mortification, and allowed him to shower and get dressed. It had been a hell of an undertaking with only one arm, but he had managed it.

Ratchet had also deigned to loosen the firewalls separating him from the neural network. It was enormously freeing, even though he was well aware that he was still considerably restrained. He shifted against the mattress, trying to get comfortable, and then he turned his attention inwards. He had spent every spare minute that morning exploring the vast space, getting a sense for its dimensions and character. He occasionally bumped into one of Ratchet’s mental blocks, and after poking and prodding at it, moved away. They were solid and immovable, like granite.

_Not unlike Ratchet_, Sam thought amusedly. Whether the medic heard him, he could not say.

Eventually, Sam found himself drawn to Bumblebee’s spark signature, like a moth to a flame. It glowed winter-white and warm, and he moved forward to brush against it tentatively. At once, he felt a pulse of _greeting_ and _affection_ from the scout. Bumblebee had been highly restrained with him since their bond had initiated the day before. He had taken Ratchet’s words to heart, Sam knew, and although Bee always welcomed his presence, he rarely initiated any interactions over the neural network. Sam found himself unable to exercise the same level of restraint, frequently reaching for Bee or brushing against him. It felt good to touch that spot of brilliance in his mind, comforting and pleasant, and Sam had quickly learned to crave it. He laid there for a long while, enjoying the sensations that passed between them, before he felt a gentle pulse of regret. Sam sighed, disappointed but unsurprised when Bumblebee disentangled himself and moved a short distance away. He touched the winter-white glow once in understanding, and then he opened his eyes.

The medical bay looked exactly as it had before he’d accessed the neural network, but for all of its three-dimensional properties, the space felt strangely flat. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and pulled the over-bed tray towards him. Lewis had brought his lunch with her, another bland meal of soup and crackers, and he started on it dutifully. As he ate, he swore to himself that as soon as he was allowed to step foot inside the mess hall, he was going to eat every single thing that he had craved over the last week. If he never ate soup or toast again, it would still be too soon.

He became aware of Ratchet’s focus, and Sam glanced across the room at him.

_//What?//_ He asked, surprised by the answering brush of approval that crossed their bond.

_//You are doing well, I would not have expected it.//_

_//Thanks, I think.//_ He thought amusedly, and then out loud he asked, “So when can I get out of here?”

For the first time since the attack, Ratchet didn’t scoff at the question. He crossed the room towards him, staring at him considerately for a long moment.

“I am tentatively amenable to discharging you today, if you are willing to agree to my conditions.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh.

“Ratchet, I would do literally anything to get out of here.” He paused, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Ratchet replied dryly, “Very well, you will remain in your apartment until I give you leave to resume normal activities. You may visit the mess hall, but otherwise you are to rest quietly.”

“Sure, no problem. I can’t stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time anyway.”

Ratchet nodded, “Second, you will continue to limit your interactions across the neural network until I tell you otherwise.”

“Okay, sure. Is that everything?” He asked, feeling a swell of eagerness.

“If I can think of anything else, I will let you know.” The medic said dryly, “Very well, you may go. Return tomorrow morning for your dressing change.”

Sam smiled at Ratchet in genuine excitement, turning his attention inwards. Before he could reach out to Bumblebee, however, the yellow scout pushed a feeling of _acknowledgement_ in his direction. Sam had the distinct impression of motion, and he realized abruptly that Bee was already on his way.

He pushed the blankets aside and climbed off the hospital gurney. It was slightly awkward, with his left arm restrained in the sling as it was, but once he was on his own two feet he stepped towards the edge of the berth. Ratchet extended his servo towards him obligingly, and Sam climbed aboard. Rather than lowering him to the floor, however, Ratchet held him close to his chassis for a long moment. Although he could feel nothing through their bond, Sam intuited what was on the medic’s mind.

“I’ll miss you too, Ratch.” He said good-naturedly.

Ratchet snorted loudly, walking him towards the medbay doors. He neither replied nor lowered him to the floor, instead holding onto him until the rumble of Bumblebee’s engines filled the hangar. Sam glanced down at his guardian’s alt mode, a smile stretching his face before Ratchet crouched down in front of the Camaro.

“Go on with you then.” He said, “I will see you tomorrow.”

Sam stepped forward, running his good hand over Bumblebee’s gleaming yellow exterior as though for the first time. Ratchet walked back towards his workbench without another word, but Sam could feel his quiet regard through their bond.

“Hey buddy.” He murmured affectionately, “I missed you.”

Bumblebee’s driver side door opened for him, and Sam huffed in amusement.

“Impatient.” He teased.

Bumblebee’s engines revved loudly in response, and Sam laughed as he climbed into the cab. As soon as he settled into the driver’s seat, the door closed behind him and Bee accelerated from the medical bay. Sam sat quietly, watching as they passed through West Quad. He was already feeling the strain of the morning, fatigue and discomfort building in his body. Sam thanked Primus for small mercies that the medication that Ratchet had given him was keeping the worst of the pain at bay.

It was not long before Bumblebee turned left onto the bridge, driving towards North Quad. It was busier here, with people coming and going about their business. Sam frowned, a sudden thought occurring to him.

“What’s the date?” He asked.

“Monday, February 17th.” Bumblebee replied immediately. The news gave Sam a funny turn in his stomach.

“I can’t believe I lost a whole month.”

Bumblebee chirped at him soothingly, his mental presence shifting closer.

“How are Cliff and Roddy?” He asked, trying to distract himself. There was a short pause, before Bumblebee’s radio flared to life.

_//Never better, Sam-my-man. We’re about half-way to Cust Point.//_

Sam grinned at Bee’s dash, sending a soft pulse of appreciation to the scout.

“Hard at work or hardly working?” He teased.

_//I’m not the one who’s been lazing around in the medical bay.// _Roddy replied, faux affront coloring his words. Sam laughed good-naturedly.

_//It’s good to hear your voice, Sam. You have been missed.//_ Cliffjumper said.

“I missed you guys too. You have no idea how bored I’ve been.”

_//Been there, done that.// _Hot Rod said knowingly, _//The trick is to annoy him into discharging you early, without pissing him off so much that it lands you back in stasis.//_

That made Sam laugh loudly—he could see the truth in the scout’s words. He was suddenly certain that they were on a private comms line, because not even Roddy would be so brazen as to speak that way if Ratchet could hear him.

“I suppose I’m talking to the master.” He replied, grinning.

_//Master shit-disturber extraordinaire, at your service.//_

That made Sam laugh again, and he became aware of Bumblebee’s warm regard through their bond. The yellow scout slowed to a stop outside of the North Quad entrance, and Sam glanced at the dash.

“It was good to hear from you guys. I’m off.”

_//Peace out, home slice.// _

Bumblebee opened the driver’s side door, and Sam slowly climbed out of the cab. It was a ginger undertaking with his bad shoulder, but he managed it without hurting himself. As soon as he stepped away, Bumblebee closed the door and his holoform materialized beside him. Sam smiled, patting Bumblebee’s hood affectionately.

“Thanks for the offer, but you don’t have to walk with me.”

The holoform tilted his head, regarding him with open amusement.

“Of course I’m going to walk you.” Bee said, and that was that. Sam let himself be led through the North Quad doors, falling into step beside his guardian as they walked. After a short while, Sam found himself glancing sidelong at the holoform in interest. He was older than Sam, perhaps early thirties, with close-cut hair and blue eyes. He was taller than Sam as well, fit and athletic—

Bumblebee glanced at him curiously, and Sam felt himself blush to the roots of his hair as he realized that the scout had been following his train of thought. Suddenly desperate to justify himself, he blurted the first thing that came to mind.

“Why do you look like that?” He stammered, and then he winced his eyes shut. _You dimwit._

“What do you mean?” Bee asked, amusement in his voice. With effort, Sam forced himself to look at the scout.

“I mean, why do you look like that specifically.”

Bee tilted his head, as though perplexed by the question.

“This is me.” He said, as though that explained things. Sam’s confusion must have been evident, for then he elaborated, “Our mimicry circuits translate our physical appearance to the best of their abilities. For all intents and purposes, this is what I look like.”

That piqued Sam’s curiosity, and he turned to look at the scout directly.

“So you didn’t choose your holoform’s appearance?”

Bumblebee laughed quietly, and Sam could feel his warm affection from across their bond.

“No, we don’t. The far-reaching control of our mimicry circuits can be aggravating at times, but they are efficient.”

“Could you change your holoform if you wanted to?”

Bee glanced at him in surprise and asked teasingly, “Don’t like what you see?”

The double-entendre in his words caught Sam completely off guard. He coughed, stammering a negative, and Bumblebee chuckled at him.

“We could change its appearance with some effort, but it would be disingenuous. I see no reason to do so.”

Sam nodded, almost dizzy with relief when the Officer’s Section came into view. If another drop of blood made its way into his face, he was sure that he would pass out cold. When they arrived at Sam’s apartment, Bumblebee opened the door for him and then stepped aside so that he could enter. The scout followed behind him, going about the room turning on lights and gathering items. Sam toed off his shoes and made his way towards the couch, sitting down carefully. Bumblebee returned moments later with the throw blanket from his bed and a glass of water.

Sam smiled at him, his earlier embarrassment forgotten.

“I thought I left the mother hen back in the medical bay.”

Bumblebee snorted, balling the blanket and throwing it towards him. Hobbled by the sling, the blanket caught Sam full in the face. He laughed, tossing the blanket on the couch beside him.

“Message received, limit your comparisons to our Chief Medical Officer.” 

At the mention of Ratchet, Sam’s awareness turned inward. He was surprised to feel the block between them had been replaced, and he frowned in confusion. Bumblebee smiled reassuringly, moving to sit on the coffee table in front of him.

“It’s not a punishment.” He said, correctly interpreting Sam’s disquiet, “He’s respecting your privacy.”

“How does that work?”

Bumblebee lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug, “Given my lack of Creator programming, I am not sure exactly. Speaking from personal experience, however, the blocks mute a lot of the traffic from the sparkling to the Creator mech, and vice versa.”

“Can he still feel me?” He asked, curiously. Bee nodded, an exasperated smile pulling at his lips.

“Believe me, yes he can. He’ll let you know it too, if you get up to trouble.”

Sam huffed a laugh, “Is that also speaking from personal experience?”

“Absolutely. Optimus respected my privacy more so than my other Creators, but he was always the first to admonish my bad behavior.”

Bumblebee’s dry tone made Sam laugh for real, shaking his head in amusement.

“I’d believe it. Optimus has practically weaponized guilt.”

It was Bumblebee’s turn to laugh, and Sam realized distantly that he liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The scout reached forward, pulling the blanket off the couch and draping it over Sam’s lap. Sam was completely taken aback by the scout’s casual assumption of control—and by his reaction to it.

Satisfied, Bumblebee stood up and smiled at him.

“Get some rest, Sam. I’ll come back when you want to go to the mess.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, when he abruptly realized the extent of his exhaustion.

“That sounds like a good idea actually, thanks.”

Bee smiled at him knowingly, and then his holoform fizzled and disappeared. Sam pulled the blanket up to his shoulders, settling down against the cushions. He breathed out a quiet sigh, glancing around his apartment. He was surprised by the contentment that he felt to be there, at the sense of _home_ the space evoked. He could never have imagined it six months ago—would never have thought it was even possible. 

He smiled to himself, tucking his nose into the soft fleece of the blanket, and slowly drifted off. He dreamed in strange images and flashes of feeling, which flited through his mind inconsistently. He felt _longing_ and _frustration_ and **_covetousness_**—

Sam jerked awake to the feeling of a hand shaking his shoulder insistently. He blinked his eyes open, squinting up to see Bumblebee’s holoform crouched beside him. He groaned disapprovingly, running his good hand over his face.

“Someone better be dead.”

The corner of Bumblebee’s lips quirked in a smile.

“You slept all day, the mess hall will be closing soon.” He said, by way of explanation. Sam glanced at him in surprise—it felt like he had just fallen asleep.

“So let it close, I’m tired.”

Bumblebee reached out and gave his good shoulder another shove. “Come on, let’s go.”

Sam groaned again, pushing himself into a sitting position. His living room was dark except for a small side lamp, although he was sure that the lights had been on when he’d fallen asleep. He scrubbed his hand over his face again, huffing a sigh.

“Yeah, alright. Fine. Give me a minute.” He grumbled, tossing the blanket aside and standing up. He took the time to use the bathroom and wash his face, before re-joining Bumblebee in the living room. He leaned against the door, pulling on his shoes, before glancing around the room trying to locate his identification badge. He hadn’t seen it since the attack.

Bumblebee stepped close, pulling the badge off the table behind him. Sam noted distantly that it had a new lanyard, and it gave him a funny turn to realize that the other had probably been covered in his blood. Bee reached up, sliding the lanyard over his head and settling it against his chest, before he stepped away.

“Alright, let’s go.” Sam murmured after a moment, and Bumblebee pulled the door open for him.

Bumblebee was quiet as they walked, which was just as well because Sam was still half-asleep. When they entered the mess hall a short while later, Sam found that it was still busy despite the late hour. Bumblebee stood beside him as he queued at the galley, watching curiously as Sam piled items onto his tray. To Sam’s delight, he saw that Chicken 65 was that evening’s main dish, and he served himself a large plate. One good thing about being stationed at a military facility in the middle of the Indian Ocean was that their south-Asian cuisine was spot on. He grabbed some naan bread and water before walking to the cash registers.

Shortly thereafter, Sam found himself a seat in a quiet corner of the mess hall. Bumblebee pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, watching him with obvious interest. That interest slowly morphed into concern, however, as Sam started in on the Chicken 65. By the time Sam reached for his second handful of napkins to wipe his face, the scout’s expression was faintly horrified.

“Why are you eating that?”

“What this?” Sam asked, chewing on a piece of naan bread to soothe the burning in his mouth.

“No, that.” He said, gesturing towards the chicken.

Sam glanced down in surprise, “Because it’s delicious?”

“But it’s paining you.” He said, confusion written all over his face.

“Oh yeah, it’s hot as hell, but it still tastes good.” Sam laughed, and then elaborated, “Some people like spicy food, the heat contributes to the taste. Besides, I’ve subsisted on nothing but soup and toast for a week—I think I’d eat acid at this point.”

Bumblebee shook his head in exasperation, but refrained from commenting for the remainder of his meal. When he finished, Sam walked to the receptacle, stacking his dishes and stowing his tray. He glanced over his shoulder at the scout, who was staring at him considerately.

“Ready to go?” He asked. Bumblebee nodded, and followed him out of the mess hall.

They walked in companionable silence, but they didn’t need words to understand each other perfectly. Bumblebee’s presence was comfortingly close in his mind, and Sam was aware of his quiet introspection. He reached forward, brushing against the winter-white glow, and the holoform turned to look at him inquiringly.

“Please tell me that this is as strange for you as it is for me.”

Bumblebee chuckled quietly.

“I’ve lived for millions of years without a spark bond. I assure you Sam, this is as new to me as it is to you.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, conceding the point. It gave him a great deal of comfort to know that they were in this together—that he was not the only one figuring things out as he went along. They fell back into a companionable silence that persisted until they turned down the hallway towards his apartment. It was then that Sam saw Optimus’ holoform waiting in the corridor, standing next to Dr. Karen Anderson. Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat, and he was distantly aware of Bumblebee’s surprise across their bond.

“Who died?” He asked as he approached, dread making him nauseous. He could think of no other reason for Optimus and his therapist to be waiting outside of his apartment this late at night.

“No one has died, Sam.” Karen said reassuringly, “May we come in?”

“What’s going on?” He demanded, anxiety making his words razor sharp.

“Let’s talk inside.” She said instead, gesturing towards the door. Sam shifted uncertainly, before he nodded and pressed his badge against the card reader. Karen pulled the door open for him, and he stepped inside his apartment. He paused briefly to flick on the overhead lights, pinning Bumblebee with an accusing look. Sam immediately felt a placating touch from the scout, tinged with confusion and concern, and he realized that Bee was just as taken aback as he was.

Karen walked across the room and sat down on the couch, gesturing for him to join her. Sam paced forward warily, but made no move to sit down.

“What’s this about, Karen?” He asked, deeply disconcerted by her presence in his living space. As his therapist, Karen made him feel both vulnerable and supported, emotional and calm. He did not like feeling so exposed in front of Optimus or Bumblebee.

“I have asked Karen to join me, as we must discuss something of a sensitive matter.” Optimus replied instead, and Sam turned to regard the Autobot leader. His holoform looked grim, the lines on its face unusually pronounced, and Sam felt dread churn in his gut. Instinctively, he turned towards the Creator bond, and sent an angry pulse of _demanding_ towards Ratchet. He felt the medic’s reassuring touch immediately, and with it came the distinct sensations of _distraction_ and _focus _and _anger_.

“Would someone please tell me what’s going on? Preferably before I have a heart attack?” He snapped.

“Sam, sit down please.” Karen said firmly before either Optimus or Bumblebee could speak. He huffed quietly, and then grudgingly moved to sit on the opposite end of the couch.

“I know we haven’t had a chance to speak yet about the attack, Sam.” Karen began, a note of apology in her voice, “So please tell me at once if you become too uncomfortable.”

He frowned at her, annoyed and confused in equal measures.

“I’m feeling uncomfortable, Karen.” He replied irritably, “Just tell me what this is all about.”

“Ripcord has asked to speak with you.” Optimus said, “In exchange for information about Megatron.”

Sam was blindsided by the Autobot leader’s words, but before he could reply, he felt a swell of rage from Bumblebee. His guardian’s holoform was rigid, its eyes narrowed at Optimus in anger. He could tell by its intent expression that he was engaging with Prime on a private comm channel.

“Why does he want to speak with me?” Sam managed.

“He has been asking for you since you on-lined.” Optimus explained, and Sam was taken aback by the controlled anger in the Autobot leader’s words, “I refused his requests. His next tactic was to offer a trade, a meeting with you for information about the Decepticons. Again I refused, ordering Ratchet to obtain the information using a medical hardline.”

“It didn’t work.” Sam hazarded a guess, recalling the swell of emotion he had sensed through the Creator bond.

“It did not. Ripcord is a talented analyst and programmer, who was able to use his technical knowledge to circumvent the medical hardline. Ratchet has only been able to glean surface-level information, all of which points to significant intel of a time-sensitive nature.”

He could feel the fire of Bumblebee’s anger burning through their bond, twisted up with frustration and impotence. Sam inferred from this that the scout’s argument with Optimus had not gone in his favor. He tentatively brushed against Bumblebee’s spark signature, trying to assuage the scout.

“So you came to ask whether I would meet with him.” Sam surmised.

“If you do this Sam, it must be for you. Not for Optimus.” Karen said, pinning him with a serious look, “It can be therapeutic to confront your attacker, but it can also result in retraumatization.”

Sam frowned, considering her words. He hadn’t given Ripcord much thought since he had woken up in the medical bay. The attack seemed like a lifetime ago, as though it had happened to someone else entirely.

“I’ll do it.”

“Sam—“ Karen started, but he interrupted her.

“No, it’s alright. I’ll do it.” He said, surprised by his sincerity, “I’m not afraid, and I know that Optimus wouldn’t have asked unless he had good reason.”

That Ratchet knew about their meeting and yet his holoform wasn’t there to protest also spoke volumes.

“Sam, I am gratified by your trust, but I must ask you to carefully consider your answer. Do not agree out of some misplaced sense of obligation to me.” Optimus rumbled.

Sam frowned, turning towards the neural network and reaching for Optimus’ signature. It was some distance away, but he could easily identify the glowing beacon of Prime’s presence. He brushed against it, firm and reassuring.

“I’m sure.” He said to the holoform. After a moment, he felt Optimus’ answering touch, which was layered with signifiers of appreciation and regret. Sam had a moment to marvel at the complexity of emotion that could be shared through the neural network, before Optimus’ holoform nodded.

“Very well, Sam. There is no time to delay, please join us at the _Ark_.”

Sam stood and Karen followed suit, turning to look at him seriously.

“I can come with you.” She offered, and Sam smiled at her in appreciation.

“Thanks Karen, but I’m okay.” He said, turning to look at Bumblebee’s holoform, “Let’s go.”

The holoform led the way, and Sam strode after him. He was surprised to realize that the fire of Bumblebee’s anger had all but extinguished, replaced instead by a strange feeling of approval. He glanced sidelong at his guardian, confused and curious in equal measures. The holoform turned to look at him, a faint smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“I forget sometimes, how resilient you are.” He said, and Sam could feel the _fondness_ of the words, “And how brave.”

Sam flushed in embarrassment, unsure of what to say and so he said nothing. When they arrived at the North Quad door, the holoform opened it for him, settling his hand on the small of Sam’s back as they stepped through. Bumblebee was waiting in his alt mode, the driver’s side door already opened. The holoform disappeared as Sam climbed into the cab, and Bumblebee accelerated forward as soon as the door shut behind him.

_//Bumblebee and Sam, en route.//_

_//Acknowledged.//_ Prowl replied.

The comms channel—or the tacnet, Sam couldn’t tell which—was unusually quiet. There was no friendly chatter or back-and-forth banter as they drove. Bumblebee quickly made his way through the bridge and into the receiving room, coming to a stop on the large lift. When they accelerated out of the ground-level hangar and into the open night a short while later, something caught Sam’s attention. He frowned, turning inwards and focusing on the neural network—and then he started in surprise. There, at the very edges of his awareness, were a number of spark signatures. He recognized Ratchet and Optimus immediately, their signatures familiar and warm in his mind. A second later, he also recognized Prowl, whose signature was close enough that he must have been standing with them. A short distance away, however, were a number of signatures that were completely foreign to him. He moved from one to the next, marveling at their beauty and complexity.

The first glowed steel gray, soft and acrid as gun smoke.

The next was transparent blue, cool and reserved in a way that vaguely reminded him of Prowl.

The third glowed gray-white, grizzled and wispy. When Sam brushed against it, he was struck with an aching sense of _agelessness _and _experience_.

The fourth—

Sam felt himself caught in Ratchet’s mental embrace, and back within the confines of the Creator bond before he knew what had happened.

_//What did I explicitly tell you?//_

Sam huffed in irritation, pushing against the medic’s mental presence. When he didn’t answer, Ratchet rapped him smartly across their bond.

_//Stop that.//_ Sam protested sharply, as Bumblebee turned onto the taxiway and drove to the far corner of the airfield.

_//Answer my question.//_

_//You told me to limit my interactions across the neural network.// _Sam replied grudgingly.

_//I had thought this was a simple instruction. Was I mistaken?//_

_No need to be a dick about it, _He thought mulishly, realizing his mistake too little too late.

_//All evidence to the contrary.// _Ratchet replied waspishly, and Sam winced apologetically.

Bumblebee slowed to a stop a short distance away from the _Ark_, which was surrounded by floodlights, large crates, and machinery. Sam opened the driver’s side door, and climbed out of the cab. Bumblebee rolled back several feet and transformed, as Optimus and Ratchet descended from the _Ark_’s ramp.

Sam walked towards them, stopping a short distance from the medic.

“Sorry Ratch.” He said sincerely, “Although I did warn you not to get offended at every stray thing that crosses my mind. I’ve thought much worse, believe me.”

Ratchet snorted air through his intakes, not deigning to reply. Instead, he turned and regarded Optimus, who was watching Sam with an air of serious contemplation.

“We will bring you to see Ripcord now. He is being held in a containment cell, and is currently restrained with stasis cuffs. He does not pose a threat to you, Sam.” Optimus rumbled, and Sam had the distinct impression that the Autobot leader was saying this not only for Sam’s benefit, but also for his own. He smiled at him reassuringly.

“I understand.”

“You may speak to him or not, the decision is yours.” Optimus continued, “But you do not have to stay for any longer than you desire. A meeting was Ripcord’s only stipulation for his cooperation.”

Sam frowned at that, but nodded his understanding. Optimus stepped aside, gesturing for Sam to follow. The Autobot leader led them up the ramp and through the ship, and Sam did not bother to disguise his naked curiosity. The ship was enormous by human standards, and utterly alien in design. The command terminals, workstations, and pilot chairs were Autobot-sized, and covered in metal cables thicker than Sam’s arm. Lights were set in the walls, glowing orange and illuminating the metal passageways through which they traveled. Rather than smooth metal, the walls and ceiling of the corridor were covered in whorls and etchings that were inches deep. He paused, reaching out a hand to trail his fingers over the cool metal. He felt a soft touch of inquiry from Bumblebee, and he turned to look at his guardian who was peering down at him curiously.

“I met a new species of autonomous robotic organisms, destroyed its most precious religious artefact, met their demi-gods who brought me back from the dead, and developed a spark signature, yet somehow _this_ is the most alien thing that I’ve ever experienced.”

Bumblebee’s optics brightened in amusement, and he whistled at him understandingly. Optimus had turned to regard him, his optics preternaturally bright in the dim light of the corridor.

“This way, Sam. It is not much farther.” Optimus rumbled, and Sam nodded in response. He stepped away from the wall, trailing after Optimus as they made their way deeper into the ship. The room beyond was a cavernous space, with metal tubing and thick cables that rose from the center of the floor and extended into an opening in the ceiling. Lights were set into the walls, glowing orange and blue, weakly illuminating the intricate metal structures that rose around him. He followed Optimus across the space and down another corridor, which ended in what could only be the brig.

It was a relatively small room, compared to the others that he had seen on the ship. There was a large desk immediately to the left as he entered, behind which stood Ultra Magnus. The City Commander inclined his helm deeply as Optimus stepped into the room. Ironhide and Kup stood together at the back of the space, which was lined with five large containment cells. The first four cells were dark and empty, but the fifth was illuminated with weak, yellow light. Sam followed Optimus into the room, approaching the back wall. He could make out a transparent blue energy barrier, which shimmered at the forefront of the small cell, behind which Ripcord sat waiting. His bright optics found Sam’s face immediately, and Sam was taken aback by the intensity of his expression.

“Hello Sam.”

“Prime has fulfilled his end of the bargain, traitor. Now tell us what you know.” Ironhide growled, and Sam was surprised by the naked animosity in his tone. Rather than answer the weapon’s specialist, however, Ripcord struggled to his feet and approached the energy barrier before sagging down to his knees. When Ripcord’s optics met Sam’s face for a second time, they were noticeably dimmed.

“You are looking much better than the last time I saw you.”

Sam saw Ratchet stiffen in his periphery, and could feel the flood of black rage from the medic.

“No thanks to you.” He replied coldly.

“Would it surprise you to know that I am relieved?” The analyst asked, his voice low and rasping.

“Seeing as how you’re the one who killed me, I’d say it would mildly surprise me.”

“It was nothing personal, Sam.” Ripcord said, and then he amended himself, “Nothing personal against you, rather. Your death was meant to teach Prime a lesson.”

“Next time, send a firmly worded letter.”

Ripcord hissed a quiet laugh, “There will never be a next time. You have nothing to fear from me any longer.”

Sam made a show of glancing around the brig before looking back to Ripcord, “I’m well aware of that.”

The analyst shook his helm minutely.

“I killed you to punish Prime for destroying the Allspark, yet here it is—safe and transformed, regenerating within the body of a human child.” He paused, and his voice became soft and sincere, “I am but your humble servant.”

Sam frowned, deeply unsettled by the analyst’s covetous tone, when he realized abruptly that Ripcord wasn’t speaking to him.

“I’m not the Allspark.” Sam snapped, discomfort sharpening his words. Before Ripcord could reply, Optimus stepped in front of Sam and stared down at the analyst with narrowed optics.

“Fulfill your end of the bargain, Ripcord.” Prime commanded, and Sam felt himself shiver at the steel in his tone. He stepped back, pressing close to Bumblebee who crouched down beside him. Ripcord regarded him with open curiosity, before glancing back to Optimus.

“Let me feel his spark signature.” Ripcord said instead, apropos of nothing.

“Never.” Ratchet growled.

“That was not a part of the bargain. Tell me what you know, or you will spend the remainder of your existence in stasis lock, as your systems slowly offline.”

Sam was taken aback, both by Autobot leader’s threat and by the promise in his tone. Ripcord seemed to consider his words, before he eventually lifted a pauldron in a weak shrug.

“Lord Megatron wants the boy.”

“Why?”

“Why else would he want your human pet? For leverage, of course.” Ripcord tilted his helm, purring smoothly, “Although, I imagine that he also suspects the boy is a Prime.”

Sam jerked back as though he had been struck, his head snapping up to look at Optimus in disbelief. His reaction seemed to amuse Ripcord, who sighed in faux regret.

“He didn’t tell you? My apologies for letting that slip.”

Optimus turned to look down at him, remorse rolling off his spark signature in waves. He felt a familiar _pinging_ sensation, but Sam shoved it away ruthlessly. He could feel Ratchet and Bumblebee through their bonds, regretful and anxious respectively, but there was no trace of surprise from either of them. He turned to look at them both in growing anger.

“You two knew about this? Are you _shitting_ me?”

“They all know, Sam.” Ripcord supplied helpfully, and Sam pinned him with a withering glare.

“Stop trying to alienate me, you asshole. It’s not going to work.”

Sam felt a gentle touch from Optimus’ mental presence, an apology and a promise both, before the Autobot leader turned back to Ripcord.

“If Megatron wants Sam alive, then why did you try to kill him?” Ironhide demanded.

“In point of fact, I did kill him.” Ripcord replied pleasantly, “But those were not my orders. As I said, I had a score to settle with Prime.”

“The attack by the command trine?” Optimus prompted, voice sharp as a blade.

“I provided Lord Megatron with the specifications of their patrols, including route and time, and notified him when it appeared that Hot Rod would be occupied with a training drill. Two grounders could not have put up a fight against two airframes.” He said, lifting a pauldron in a shrug.

Sam felt white hot rage flood through him in an instant when he realized the implications of his words—Ripcord had fully intended for Bumblebee and Cliffjumper to be killed in the assault. If Sam could have torn him apart with his bare hands, he would have. Bumblebee rested his servo against Sam’s back, placating and restraining, as his mental presence wrapped around him tightly. Ripcord stared at them for a long moment, obviously bewildered, before his optics widened in realization.

“This is all information that we have already suspected.” Optimus rumbled, “Tell me what you have buried beneath those firewalls.”

Ripcord leaned back on his haunches, smiling pleasantly.

“Lord Megatron has the _Nemesis,_ and she’s operational.”

Sam was rocked by a tidal wave of emotion from the surrounding Autobots—shock, disbelief, sinking dismay, trepidation. He stumbled back, unbalanced by the onslaught. He felt Ratchet’s intense focus, and the stream of sensation was cut off abruptly as the medic shored up his firewalls. Sam brushed against him, shaky and appreciative.

“What complement does she carry?” Optimus asked, over the ringing in Sam’s ears.

“A full armament.” Ripcord replied blithely, “And manned by Shockwave, Acid Storm, Deadlock, and Blitzwing—that I know of.”

“Anything else?” Ironhide ground out between clenched dentae, and Sam could tell by his tone that the analyst’s words had been a significant blow.

“He has ground bridge technology, and he’s close to operationalizing it.”

Optimus’ optics shuttered slowly, before he pinned Ripcord with a critical look.

“How do we know that you speak the truth?”

Ripcord extended his arm towards him, and Sam watched as a small panel clicked open revealing the complicated wiring beneath.

“I will consent to Ratchet’s medical hardline, if you wish to verify my claims. I have gotten all that I wanted.”

Optimus turned his helm minutely towards his Chief Medical Officer, who stepped forward and deactivated the cell barrier. He withdrew a small cable, no thicker than Sam’s thumb, from beneath a panel on his arm and connected it to Ripcord’s port.

It all happened very quickly.

Ratchet cried out in shock, his optics shuttering tightly as he fell to his knees. The sound of angry shouting and rapidly charging canons filled the room, as Bumblebee pulled Sam close to his chassis. A moment later, the firewalls separating Sam from the neural network shivered and fell away. He screamed as an onslaught of sensory data flooded through him as he fully connected to the neural network—a slurry of _feeling_ and _sensation_ and _vastness. _

At once, Ripcord’s presence clawed its way into his mind, oily and determined. Sam could feel invisible fingers tracing over every inch of his mental presence, desperately searching for something—

Like an avenging archangel, Bumblebee’s presence filled his mind in an instant. It pushed Ripcord’s signature away from him, as effortlessly as swatting a fly, and then he attacked. Sam couldn’t understand the dizzying flashes of _motion_ or _impact_ that filtered through his brain, but suddenly he heard Ripcord cry out, and then his presence was gone.

Sam squinted his eyes open to find himself on his hands and knees, Bumblebee crouched over him protectively. He was breathing hard, shaking like a junkie coming off a high, when he took in the scene in front of him. Optimus was kneeling in front of Ratchet, who was shaking his helm at him. Ripcord’s body lay sprawled against the floor, a smoking hole ripped through his chassis, as Ironhide’s canons powered down. The analyst’s optics were open and dark, and Sam realized through a haze that he was dead. He squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed by the spark signatures that pulsed around him. It was too much—

He heard a harsh rasp of air being cycled through an intake, and then Ratchet’s presence flared along their bond. Sam could feel the medic’s agony and anger before the firewalls snapped back into place, mercifully separating him from the neural network. With a dizzying _shift_, Sam found himself tucked back within the confines of the Creator bond, Ratchet’s presence hidden away behind an impenetrable block.

“Are you alright?” The medic rasped at him, still on the floor.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He replied, “You’re hurt.”

Ratchet ex-vented slowly, but he did not contradict him.

“I will be fine, Sam. My self-repair routines are already purging the virus.”

“Were you able to get anything from him, before he attacked?” Ironhide asked, kicking Ripcord’s smoking chassis.

“Everything he told us was true, in so far as he knew.” Ratchet confirmed grimly looking up at Optimus, “We are going to have a fragging fight on our hands.”

Optimus nodded solemnly, before helping Ratchet to his pedes. The medic leaned heavily against him.

“Can you make it to the medical bay?” He asked quietly.

Ratchet shook his helm, “Take me to the _Ark_’s clinic. I’ll recharge there.”

Sam reached out through their bond, brushing against the block that separated them. He pushed _concern_ and _affection_ at the medic, as hard as he could. Ratchet paused, looking down at him with a half-smile pulling at his faceplates.

“You are very loud, Sam.” He muttered with a bit of his usual vim, “But thank-you.”

Sam quirked a weak smile at the medic, who stared at him for a long while before allowing Optimus to help him from the brig. He watched the two of them go, with indefinable emotion pulling at him until Bumblebee whistled at him softly. Sam glanced up at his guardian, whose optics were possessive and fierce in equal measures, and sighed tiredly.

“I’d rather be anywhere but here. Let’s go, Bee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messaged Steelfeathers before I began writing this story, and asked her what Megatron wanted with Sam. Her exact answer was, "Why else would Megatron take one of the Autobots' human pets - leverage, of course! And because Sam is a human Prime...whoops, did I let that slip?", which I recreated as Ripcord's dialogue.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who've stuck by me all of this time. Your support is sincerely appreciated. I will be uploading a longer chapter within the next few days.

Bumblebee whistled at him softly in understanding, before straightening up and extending a servo towards him. Sam grabbed onto a thick digit with his good hand and hauled himself to his feet. His shoulder burned in pain from his collision with the floor during Ripcord’s attack, and Sam swore darkly under his breath. Ironhide turned to watch him, and then stepped over the still-smoking husk on the floor as he approached.

“Are you alright?” He asked, in his usual direct and gruff manner.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He grumbled, “Nice shot.”

Ironhide ex-vented a snort, “He got what he deserved.”

Ultra Magnus stepped forward to stand beside Ironhide, glancing first at Ripcord’s broken chassis and then down at Sam.

“Are you sure that you are alright? Ratchet has you wrapped so tightly in firewalls that I can’t get a read on you at all.”

Sam glanced at the City Commander in surprise. This was perhaps the most that Ultra Magnus had said to him in the months since the Autobot had arrived on base.

“I’m fine.” He said, quirking a half-smile at the serious mechanoid, “Besides, now I only need one more stamp on my ‘_Attacks on Sam’_ card to earn myself a free coffee.”

Ultra Magnus frowned down at him, his visage equal parts confounded and disapproving. Sam could feel Bumblebee’s exasperation through their bond, and he flashed the scout a grin.

“Are humans always so cavalier about their own wellbeing?”

Sam lifted his good shoulder in a shrug.

“It’s a coping mechanism.” He replied sardonically, “Otherwise, I’d probably be having total mental breakdowns on the regular.”

“You are unusually emotive.” Ultra Magnus conceded, after a moment’s consideration.

Sam huffed, unsure whether he should be offended.

“So I’ve been told.” He replied dryly, before glancing up at Bumblebee, “Ready to go?”

The scout nodded at him, gesturing with a servo towards the large entryway. Bumblebee led him out of the brig and through the depths of the ship_. _Sam walked slowly, declining his guardian’s unspoken offer to carry him. His thoughts were turned inwards, introspective and troubled. He could not feel Ratchet though their bond, which was quiet and still. He tentatively brushed against the block that separated him from the medic, but there was no response. After a moment, he carefully withdrew, not wanting to distract Ratchet if he was recharging or treating his injuries.

A short while later they exited the _Ark_, descending the ramp towards the airfield. The floodlights were glaring, illuminating a circle around the ship beyond which the night was opaque and still. Bumblebee strode forward and transformed, opening his driver’s side door a moment later. Sam stared at the Camaro for the space of several seconds before he climbed into the cab. The door clicked shut behind him and Sam settled back against the seat, raising his hand to press into his shoulder. Warmth blossomed from the leather behind him, and Sam grunted in appreciation.

He was aware of Bumblebee’s intense scrutiny through their bond, his presence agitated and restless. They drove in silence, the lights of the base growing brighter as they approached downtown. It was quiet this late at night, with almost no pedestrians or vehicle traffic, and Bumblebee was able to make it back to the hangar in record time. He idled as the one of the two sentries pressed a badge against the sensor, and then he rolled forward as the large doors opened before him. By the time the lift had settled into the floor of the receiving room, Sam’s shoulder was throbbing in pain despite the warmth from Bumblebee’s seats.

Sam felt a hesitant touch in his mind, and he glanced questioningly at the dashboard.

“You should go to the hospital ward.”

He was surprised by the surge of anger that he felt at his guardian’s words.

“No.”

There was an uncertain pause, and the touch in his mind became entreating.

“Sam, you’re hurt.”

“I said no.” He snapped. As far as Sam was concerned, his physician was indisposed and that was that. He felt a gentle thrum of _acknowledgement_ through their bond, and Bee’s alt mode turned in the direction of North Quad. They drove through the bridge in silence, and Sam became aware that his guardian’s mental presence had receded, its form strangely opaque and unreadable. He frowned at the dashboard in confusion, but did not comment. Minutes later, Bumblebee slowed to a stop outside of the North Quad entrance and opened the door for him. Sam climbed out of the cab slowly, tired and hurting, and shut the door behind him. Immediately, Bumblebee’s holoform materialized beside him, its expression intense and inscrutable. Sam did not protest as Bumblebee gestured towards the North Quad entrance, allowing himself to be led towards the Officer’s Section.

When they arrived at his apartment, Bumblebee opened the door for him and Sam stepped over the threshold without comment. He made his way over to the couch and sat down heavily, pulling off his shoes with his good hand. Bee disappeared into his bedroom, and Sam could hear the scout rummaging around. Moments later, he returned and handed Sam a small, white bottle—ibuprofen, he recognized. He murmured in appreciation, twisting off the cap and shaking four pills onto the coffee table. He swept them into his palm and swallowed them with a mouthful of water from the glass that Bumblebee had brought him that afternoon.

Sam sighed, leaning back against the couch as he reached for the Creator bond once again—it remained unchanged, as quiet and still as stasis. He sat forward after a moment, propping his elbow against his knee and covering his face with his hand. He sat there for an interminable time, anxious and in pain, until Bumblebee moved to sit on the coffee table in front of him. The scout was still for a long moment, and then he reached out his hand to clasp the back of Sam’s neck, leaning down until his forehead pressed against Sam’s short curls. The intimacy of the contact shocked Sam into stillness, and he glanced at his guardian in surprise.

Bumblebee’s expression was carefully reserved, but Sam could feel the intensity of his emotions through their bond—protectiveness, concern, possessiveness, _affection._

“Bee?” He asked softly, uncertainly.

“Sam.” He murmured back, giving the back of Sam’s neck a gentle squeeze as though to assure himself that he was safe and whole. Despite his exhaustion and the burning pain in his shoulder, Sam smiled. He brushed against Bumblebee’s spark signature reassuringly, enjoying the gentle _thrill_ the contact gave him, and his pulse quickened in something other than anxiety or pain.

Abruptly, Bumblebee let go of him and sat back on the coffee table. His expression was fond but serious, and his voice was firm when he spoke.

“You should get some sleep. It’s late, and you’re tired.”

Sam looked at him in confusion, unsure what caused the scout’s abrupt withdrawal. Before he could voice his confusion, however, Bumblebee stood up and stepped away.

“Do you need anything?” He asked. Sam shook his head, and Bumblebee smiled faintly, “Rest well, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Without another word, the holoform abruptly vanished. Sam stared in surprise at the spot where his guardian had just been standing, before turning his attention inwards. Bumblebee’s presence was nearby, but it had resumed its opaque and unreadable character. Sam frowned, but he did not press the scout for answers. Instead, he made his way into his bedroom and pulled a pair of lounge pants out of the closet. Sam undressed slowly, his left arm awkward and restrictive in its sling, before pulling on the pants and making his way to the bathroom. When he was finished, he washed his hands and brushed his teeth, and then flicked off the light before climbing into bed.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

* * *

Sam jerked awake, confused and disoriented. He rolled over and raised his head, squinting at the clock on the bedside table.

7:14 am.

He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head back onto the pillow. His shoulder burned hotly, the ibuprofen that he had taken the night before long since worn off. Sam reached for the comforter with his good arm, fully intending on going back to sleep, when the door chimed.

He glanced towards the living room in confusion, unsure who would be calling on him at the early hour. The chime sounded again, and Sam groaned as he struggled into a sitting position. He tossed the blankets aside, standing up and padding across the apartment. The chime sounded for a third time as Sam pulled open the door, immediately wincing his eyes shut as he recognized who was standing in the corridor.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Not at all.” Dr. Lewis said, “Good morning.”

She held a deep tray filled with an assortment of medical supplies, and had an expectant expression on her face. Sam sighed in resignation, stepping aside to let her enter. He immediately turned his focus inwards, feeling along the Creator bond with growing trepidation. Its character was unchanged from last night, and Sam couldn’t feel anything from beyond the solid block that separated him from Ratchet’s mental presence. He frowned, casting his attention outwards and was surprised to find that Bumblebee’s signature was far away—barely more than a pinprick in the distance.

Dr. Lewis walked into his apartment, placing the tray on the coffee table and gesturing for him to join her. After a moment, he pulled his attention away from the neural network and moved forward to sit on the edge of the couch. She helped him unfasten the arm sling and then struggle out of his shirt. Lewis worked quickly, peeling the bandages off his shoulder, treating the suture site, and then re-bandaging him. She handed him two oblong tablets, and Sam swallowed them down gratefully before glancing at her.

“Have you heard anything about Ratchet?” He asked at last, breaking the silence.

She shook her head minutely, “No, but that’s not unusual. He’s my superior officer, I report to him and not vice versa.”

Lewis stood up and carried the dirty bandages into the bathroom. Sam could hear her washing her hands a moment later, and then she walked back into the living room and pinned him with an expectant look.

“Alright, let’s get started.”

Sam sighed, “If I promise you that I don’t know anything, can you skip the torture and jump right to the execution?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” She asked, walking around the couch to sit in front of him.

Sam grimaced as she took his left wrist in her hand, bracing her other against his elbow, and pulled gently until his shoulder burned. She held the position for the count of ten seconds, and then moved his arm back. For the next twenty minutes, Lewis manipulated his arm, pulling it this way and that, to strain his shoulder in new ways. By the time she glanced at her watch, Sam was pale and sweating.

“Alright, take this.” She said, handing him a small rubber ball. He glanced at it curiously and she motioned for him to tuck it under his left armpit. He complied, and then she had him squeeze his arm against his side. The ball caused the bones in his shoulder to pull outward as he pulled his arm in, and the pain was blinding.

“Holy shit.” He swore.

“Don’t squeeze to the point of pain, Sam. Just until it starts to burn.”

“It always burns.” He snapped, but she looked unaffected by his outburst.

“Once again, and hold for ten if you please.”

“You should have been a drill sergeant.” He replied peevishly, but he moved to comply with her instructions. She hummed noncommittally, her eyes sharp and assessing as she watched him. After two more iterations, she took the ball from him and placed it on the coffee table.

“I want you to repeat that exercise three times, once after lunch and then after supper.” She instructed, gathering up her supplies, “Do you need help getting back into the sling?”

“No, thank-you. I’m going to go shower.” He replied, and Lewis nodded at him.

“Good work today, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that foreboding farewell, Lewis picked up her supplies and left. Sam turned his attention once again towards Bumblebee’s spark signature, which glowed elusively at him from a distance. He frowned deeply, unsure how to cross the space between them. Stymied, he walked into the bedroom, grabbing some clean clothes, and then headed to the bathroom. It took a long time for him to shower, and it was almost nine o’clock before he was dressed and heading towards the mess hall.

People nodded to him as they passed by in the corridor. Many of them were familiar faces, officers who lived in his section of North Quad or administrative personnel that worked with Dave. He nodded back to each of them, wishing them good morning. It was no time at all before he was standing in line at the galley, glancing through the transparent guard at that morning’s options.

“Good to see you again, Ambassador.” A soldier greeted as he settled a deep silver tray into its slot in the galley. Sam glanced up at him in surprise, barely restraining a wince.

“It’s just Sam.”

The soldier quirked a smile at him, “No offense, sir, but my CO would have my balls if he heard me call you that.”

Sam stared at the man in surprise, both at his words and his genial tone.

“Uh, alright.” He said at last, hating the heat that suffused his face.

“Anyway, glad to see you up and about. Welcome back.” He said, tossing him a friendly smile and then turning back towards the kitchens. Sam stood there in surprise for a long moment, until the Major behind him cleared his throat politely. He murmured an apology at the man, and then took his tray towards the cash registers at the end of the galley. The heavy-set older woman smiled at him as she keyed in his items, and then he handed her his ID.

“Thank-you.” She said as she swiped the badge. The light on the terminal blinked green, and she handed it back to him, “Have a good morning, Mr. Witwicky.”

Sam stammered his thanks, and then carried his tray to a secluded corner of the mess hall. He ate slowly, his focus turned inwards as he regarded the Creator bond. He was certain that he would know if something serious had happened to Ratchet, but that certainty did little to assuage the feeling of anxiety that was building in his gut. He turned his attention back towards Bumblebee’s spark signature, which remained distant and elusive. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and scrolled to Bumblebee’s contact. He stared at it for the space of a heartbeat, before he typed out a quick text.

_SamWitwicky: Have you heard anything about Ratchet this morning?_

It was a long moment before his cell phone pinged in reply.

_Bee: Nothing yet. Optimus is with him, and he seems unconcerned._

Sam stared at his phone considerately, and then he typed out the question that was really on his mind.

_SamWitwicky: Where are you? _

Sam frowned at the message after he had sent it—it made him sound clingy and insecure. His phone pinged barely a moment later.

_Bee: At the munitions depot, with Ironhide and Kup. I shouldn’t be much longer._

The scout’s reply made him cringe in mortification, and he typed off a quick response without thinking.

_SamWitwicky: No rush, have fun._

Sam’s brain caught up with him right after he hit _send_, and he stared at the text in dismay. _Have fun?_

Sam put the phone back into his pocket without waiting for a response. He finished his breakfast quickly, and left the mess hall without a backwards glance. He waffled in the corridor for only a moment, unsure what to do, when he decided to kill two birds with one stone. He pulled his phone out of his pocket again as he headed towards the North Quad entrance, quickly scrolling to Hot Rod’s contact. He knew that he scout would be on sentry duty this morning, stationed to the downtown area.

_SamWitwicky: can you do me a favor?_

His phone pinged a second later.

_Roddy: It depends. Does it involve disposing a body? _

Sam shook his head in exasperation.

_SamWitwicky: Not today. Can you drive me to the Ark?_

There was a longer pause this time, and Sam stared at his phone impatiently. Eventually, Roddy replied.

_Roddy: Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you by the hangar._

Sam locked his phone and pushed it into his pocket, walking briskly towards the bridge. It was the better part of twenty minutes before he made his way groundside, and out into the sweltering heat of the early morning. He nodded at Killian and Williams, who were stationed at the hangar entrance, before striding towards the gleaming Lamborghini that was waiting a short distance away. Hot Rod popped the door for him, and Sam settled into the driver’s seat with a murmur of appreciation. The Lamborghini accelerated forward, driving towards downtown without a word. Wrapped tightly as he was by Ratchet’s firewalls, Sam could not sense a thing from the scout.

“Thanks for this, Roddy.”

“It’s no problem, Sam. I know that Bumblebee is busy.”

Sam fell silent, thinking back to his reaction in the mess hall with growing embarrassment. Since when had he started being so clingy? Bumblebee had duties, after all. It was not as though the scout’s life revolved around him. A short while later, Hot Rod pulled to a stop outside the semi-circle of crates and machinery that surrounded the _Ark_, opening his door. Sam climbed out of the cab slowly, pushing the door shut behind him.

“Thanks Roddy.” He murmured.

The Lamborghini rolled back several feet and then he transformed, crouching down in front of him a moment later.

“Optimus is waiting for you in the clinic, do you know your way?”

Sam huffed quietly, somehow unsurprised that the Autobot leader had correctly interpreted his reason for being there.

“No, I don’t. Is it hard to find?”

Before Roddy could reply, Sam heard Optimus’ voice call down from the ship.

“I’ll walk with you.”

He turned his head to see Optimus’ holoform descending the ramp towards him. Roddy nodded at Optimus in acknowledgement, before transforming back into his alt mode. He pulled away with a blast of his horn in farewell, driving back towards the base.

Sam turned to look at Optimus’ holoform as he approached. The older man seemed tired, a weary stoop to his shoulders, and Sam recalled Bumblebee’s comment about the far-reaching control of their mimicry circuits.

“How is he?” Sam asked, walking forward to meet him. 

“He is well, Sam. His self-repair routines have purged the virus; they are now fixing the damage to his network arrays.”

Sam nodded slowly, following the holoform up the ramp and into the ship. Optimus led him through the docking bay, which was large and empty. The experience of walking through the alien ship was just as surreal the second time, and Sam found himself glancing around with undisguised curiosity. The _Ark’s_ clinic was near the cavernous room with the cables that he had seen the night before. It was similar in appearance to Ratchet’s medical bay, although considerably smaller. When Sam stepped through the large doors, he spotted Optimus in his bipedal mode a short distance away. Beside him, lying supine on a berth, was Ratchet.

Sam couldn’t take his eyes off the medic, whose optics were shuttered closed.

“How long until he wakes up?” He asked, hating the vulnerability that he could hear in his voice.

“It will not be long now.” Optimus reassured him, “Perhaps a few hours.”

Sam nodded, and after a long moment, he turned to look at the Autobot leader. Optimus was regarding him closely, his optics impossibly bright in the dim space. Sam steeled himself as much as he was able, and then asked, “Alright then, what did Ripcord mean? About me being a Prime?”

Optimus ex-vented softly, lowering down to one knee in front of him.

“I am sorry, Sam. That is not how I wished for you to find out.”

“You can’t be serious.” Sam said incredulously, “Optimus, are you glitched?”

Optimus hesitated, as though considering his words carefully, “You and I have spoken a great deal about the political landscape of Cybertron during the height of the Golden Age. You know that a Prime is both a religious and a political figurehead.”

Sam frowned, surprised by the apparent tangent, but he nodded in acknowledgement.

“That was not always so. In the first Golden Age, a Prime was a religious leader—they had nothing to do with politics. The path to becoming a Prime was a deeply spiritual one, involving a great deal of prayer and reflection.”

Sam tilted his head at Optimus in confusion, “You said that the title of Prime was conferred by the Matrix of Leadership.”

“So it is, but the old traditions required potential Primes to spend mega-vorns in supplication before they were given the opportunity to approach the Matrix. In this way, supplicants were fully aware of the mantle of responsibility that they were about to claim.”

Sam nodded slowly, frowning in thought.

“What changed?”

Optimus sighed regretfully, “The machinations of the Senate in the second Golden Age confounded the responsibilities of the Primes. It was not long before the role of Prime became one of political leadership. Once that occurred, a Prime was expected to be present in the Senate—always.”

Sam’s frown deepened, as he recalled what Optimus had told him about Sentinel Prime.

“What if something happened to a Prime? It’s not like anyone could force Primus to make a new one.”

Optimus inclined his helm, and Sam inferred that he had grasped the point of the matter.

“If something befell a Prime—if they were killed or if they went missing—then a new Prime had to be designated as quickly as possible. It was necessary in order to avoid the bloody infighting that would certainly occur in a power vacuum.”

“Is that what happened to you?” Sam asked, although he already suspected the answer.

Optimus nodded gravely, “After Sentinel Prime disappeared, the Senate delivered the Matrix of Leadership to Alpha Trion for safekeeping. He was one of the oldest living Transformers, the keeper of our accumulated knowledge, and the Senate trusted him to find a new Prime.”

“What does this have to do with the old religion?” Sam asked, not seeing the connection.

Optimus hesitated a long moment before he replied.

“Alpha Trion saw something of Primus within me. When he bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon me, I was re-made as Optimus Prime.”

Sam shook his head, not understanding Optimus’ point. The Autobot leader shuttered his optics briefly, and then he clarified further.

“He bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon me—it was not my decision.”

Sam jerked back in surprise, “He didn’t give you a choice?”

“He did not. By the time that I realized what had happened, it was already done.” Optimus paused, his voice deepening with emotion, “It was… a difficult transition.”

Sam felt a swell of anger on Optimus’ behalf, “So that was it, then? You were Prime, just like that? Without your consent?”

“Just like that. It was neither my choice nor my desire, but the responsibility was mine.” Optimus leaned forward, his expression solemn and sincere, “When you told me that the Primes gave you the Matrix of Leadership, I understood the full significance of what you had said. I could not prevent what had happened, but I had hoped to ease the transition for you—to make your experience less painful than my own.”

Sam’s heart was beating hard against his ribs by the time that Optimus had finished speaking.

“Optimus, you can’t seriously believe what you’re saying.”

“The Primes bestowed the Matrix of Leadership upon you, and you used it to rekindle my spark. Only a Prime could do such a thing.”

He became aware of Bumblebee’s concerned regard through their bond, and he _reached_ for the scout instinctively. At once, his familiar presence filled Sam’s mind—comforting and calm.

Sam shook his head in denial, “They gave it to me _for you._”

Optimus regarded him for a long moment, before asking gently, “Did they speak to you?”

The question pulled him up short. Unbidden, the memory of the Primes rose to the forefront of his mind and he recalled their words with crystal clarity. He could feel Bumblebee’s stunned disbelief from across their bond as the scout experienced the memory with him.

“I don’t understand. I’m human—I’m _nobody._ I’m just a kid from California.”

Something softened in Optimus’ optics.

“I was just a data clerk from Iacon.”

Sam stared disbelievingly at Optimus for a long moment, before sinking down to sit on the floor. His thoughts turned inward, recalling all that Optimus had told him about the Matrix of Leadership and the Code of Primus.

“You tried to tell me.” He murmured through numb lips, “All the lessons, all the readings. You tried to get me to see it on my own.”

Optimus inclined him helm in acknowledgement, and Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. It was hallow-sounding and flat, even to his own ears.

“I’m officially at my limit, Optimus.” He said dryly, “If you have any other secrets about me, you’re welcome to keep them to yourself.”

“There is nothing else, Sam. You have my word.”

“Well, thank goodness for small mercies, I guess.” He replied, before sighing heavily, “What does this mean, Optimus? For me?”

“It means whatever you want it to mean, Sam. I am giving you what I never had—a choice.”

Sam glanced up at him, taken aback by the promise in Optimus’ voice. The Autobot leader was staring at him with a naked sincerity that he could almost feel, even without access to the neural network.

He hesitated, uncertain.

“I like things the way they are.” He said at last, as though in apology.

“Then things will stay the way they are, insofar as it is within my power to ensure it.”

Sam nodded at him, quiet for a long while until the ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips, “Karen Anderson is going to need a raise.”

Optimus’ expression warmed in fond amusement, but before he could reply the Creator bond flared brightly in Sam’s mind. Sam’s head snapped towards Ratchet’s berth so quickly that he almost gave himself an injury. He scrambled to his feet as Optimus moved towards the medic’s side. Ratchet’s optics opened, glowing brightly in the dimness of the room, before he pushed himself into a sitting position. Relief flooded through Sam so intensely that it left him feeling lightheaded.

“How are you feeling?” Optimus rumbled, and Ratchet glanced at him in exasperation.

“I’m fine, Optimus, systems fully de-fragged and optimized. You did not have to stay with me.”

Something passed between them then, wordless and powerful, and Ratchet grunted in response. The medic turned towards Sam, his gruff demeanor softening minutely. The block between them shivered and fell away, and Ratchet’s familiar presence filled his mind.

_//Foolish boy.//_ He groused, but there was no heat in his words.

_//I’m glad to see you too.//_ Sam replied sincerely, and he felt the medic huff in response.

Sam felt Ratchet _shift_, and suddenly he was free of the Creator bond. The neural network sprung to life around him, and at once he became aware of the presence of Prowl and Ultra Magnus—their spark signatures cool and blue in his mind. His mental presence darted forward instinctively, brushing against them. He felt their answering touches, surprisingly patient and good-natured, and he smiled.

Ratchet watched him closely, his helm tilted in consideration before turning to look at Optimus.

“Ripcord’s attack might have succeeded, had I been less experienced.” He said.

Optimus glanced towards him in surprise.

“What was he after?”

“I am not sure of his objective, but he wanted Sam. We cannot afford to leave him so vulnerable—I won’t always be there to protect him.”

Sam looked from Ratchet to Optimus, and back again.

“What are you saying, Ratchet?”

The medic turned to regard him, “You need to learn how to build your own firewalls, and how to protect yourself against attackers.”

Sam frowned, “I mean, that sounds like a good idea. Why the foreboding tone?”

Optimus cycled a sigh, “It takes vorns—centuries—for newsparks to develop sufficiently to allow for the transfer of protective protocols.”

“Okay, so what does that mean?”

“It means you’re going to have to learn the hard way.” Ratchet said blithely, and Sam felt a sinking sense of trepidation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last stop for those of you uninterested in the Bumblebee/Sam Witwicky pairing. Friendly warning.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your continued support. The slow burn is officially over this chapter.
> 
> **Chapter Warning** \- Explicit sexual content.

“The hard way?” He asked, uncertainly.

Ratchet swung his struts over the side of the berth and stood up. Optimus moved aside, and the medic stepped towards Sam, looking down at him considerately.

“Harder than a data transfer surely, but I daresay that you will survive the experience.”

Sam glanced up at him, feeling the sense of trepidation tighten in his gut. He sincerely doubted that the medic’s sardonic tone boded well for him.

“Not helpful, Ratchet.”

Ratchet ex-vented a sigh, crouching down in front of him. He could feel the medic’s consternation through their bond, though he knew instinctively that it was not directed towards him.

“Sam, like it or not, you are the neural equivalent of a newspark. You are vulnerable to all manner of intrusions and malware. The sooner you learn to protect yourself, the better.”

“I know that.” He replied, frowning, “What would I have to do?”

“I will remove most of the firewalls separating you from the neural network, and you will practice creating and eventually maintaining your own blocks.”

The trepidation in his stomach sharpened to anxiety in an instant.

“Ratchet, it’s bad enough having you inside my head. I don’t want every Autobot on the island listening to every random thought that crosses my mind. Sunstreaker would throw me into the ocean before breakfast.”

Ratchet’s mouthplates twitched precariously—the bastard—and he tilted his helm thoughtfully.

“We will begin slowly. I will start by removing a small number of blocks and we will work in short intervals. As you develop your skills, I will decrease the number of blocks separating you from the neural network and increase the time of each session. Regarding Sunstreaker and the others, I expect that most of them will respect your privacy, insofar as they are able to do so.”

Sam gritted his teeth, not at all comforted by the caveat.

“Because I’m loud.”

Ratchet nodded his head in agreement, “You are, but you are improving.”

Sam sighed heavily, the feeling of anxiety sharpening in his gut. He could understand Ratchet’s rationale—it had been awful to feel Ripcord’s greasy presence invading his mind—but he dreaded being so exposed, even among friends. Ratchet regarded him uncomplainingly as he worked through his insecurities, surprisingly patient and calm.

“What if it doesn’t work? You said yourself that my signature was different, what if I can’t do it?”

“Then we will burn that bridge when we come to it, as the humans say.” Ratchet replied, and then he added reassuringly, “I have complete confidence in your ability, Sam. It will be a steep learning curve, but you are a fast learner.”

Sam huffed quietly, surprisingly moved by the medic’s unexpected praise.

“How long at a time?” He asked after a moment.

“An hour or two, depending on how well you acclimatize to the experience.”

Seeing no other reason to object, Sam lifted his good shoulder in a shrug. Ratchet correctly interpreted the gesture as consent, and a moment later Sam felt his mental awareness widen abruptly. The rush of _sensation_ was almost overwhelming, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of dizziness. Ratchet reached out a servo to steady him, sending a wordless pulse of encouragement across their bond.

The mental space in which he found himself was large, only slightly smaller than the full neural network that he had briefly experienced when Ripcord had destroyed Ratchet’s firewalls. He could feel the simultaneous mental presence of numerous spark signatures—brilliant and beckoning. There was Ratchet and Optimus, nearby and familiar. Further away he could sense Prowl and Ultra Magnus, glowing cool blue in his mind. He could feel the weight of their regard, tinged with curiosity and surprise. He had hardly a moment to revel in their calming presence, before his attention was caught by a rosy-gold glow in the distance. He moved forward instinctively, brushing against the unknown presence. It was pearlescent and petal-soft, entirely unique in his limited experience. 

_//Thanks, Sam. You’re not so bad yourself, very… earthy.// _Hot Rod’s amused voice cut through his mind, and Sam jerked back in surprise. There hadn’t been an incoming ping. 

He was aware of Ratchet’s intense scrutiny through their bond, and the medic answered his unspoken question immediately.

_//There was no ping because you’re on an unsecured, unencrypted channel. Anyone can send information to you, and receive information from you in return.//_

Sam felt an embarrassed flush climb up his neck.

“A heads-up would have been appreciated.” Sam grumbled. At least Hot Rod hadn’t seemed offended—he certainly didn’t have a petal-soft personality.

_//No worries, Sam. It was a rookie mistake.// _Roddy teased.

Sam startled as though he had been tasered, narrowing his eyes as he turned his attention inward.

_//Do you mind?// _He asked waspishly.

_//Nope.//_

He became aware of Bumblebee’s mental presence through their bond, attentive and apprehensive. If Sam focused, he could make out his guardian’s spark signature in the distance, winter white and familiar. He tilted his head in surprise as he recognized the two signatures that were with him—one was opaque and steel gray, and the other was gray-white, grizzled and pot-marked. They glowed at him like stars, brilliant against the darkness of the neural network despite their distance. He tentatively reached out, brushing against the nearest of the two, and he was surprised by the gentle pulse of _welcome_ that answered him.

_//Hello, Sam.//_ Ironhide murmured in greeting. His mental voice was smoother than his spoken voice, missing the hardened electronic edge of his vocalizer. Sam smiled faintly in response, unsurprised that the weapon’s specialist would remind him of metal and gun smoke. He felt Ironhide’s twinge of approval, and then his focus shifted away, back to whatever he had been working on.

Sam felt Ratchet _pull_ at him through their bond, and he twisted, leaning into the medic’s mental presence with a wordless query.

“Although I am pleased by the ease with which you seem to navigate the neural network, you are supposed to be working on firewalling.” He admonished dryly, “You know their form and character, try to establish one now.”

Sam stared at the medic in disbelief, “Are you glitched? I’ve driven a car, but that doesn’t mean I could build one.”

He could feel Roddy’s amusement bubbling up in his mind, and he shoved at the scout’s mental presence in response. Ratchet pulled at him again through their bond, and Sam turned his attention back towards the medic. He drew Sam’s presence closer, and he could feel himself brush against a firewall that separated the Creator bond from the neural network. He frowned in response—he hadn’t even noticed that it had been there.

_//Here, feel this.//_ Ratchet instructed, and Sam complied. The firewall was heavy in his mind, dark and opaque like a solid shadow. He could feel Ratchet’s expectation, and he rolled his eyes.

“Still not helpful.” He said, his frustration quickly mounting.

He felt Optimus’ gentle touch, calming and supportive in his mind. He glanced at the Autobot leader, who regarded him with thoughtful optics.

“Perhaps a demonstration would prove to be more effective.”

Sam lifted a shoulder in a shrug, because damned if he knew.

Optimus’ expression softened in amusement, and then Sam felt a familiar _pinging_ sensation. He turned his attention inwards, focused, and then Optimus’ presence was in his mind. Sam frowned, taken aback once again by the _alienness_ of the sensation, so unlike the bonds he shared with Ratchet and Bumblebee. He could feel Optimus’ patient regard, and Sam felt a twinge of appreciation for his seemingly endless consideration.

“I’m alright.” He said after a long moment.

Optimus nodded briefly, and then Sam could feel him _shift and pull_. There was a strange sensation of tension, and then Optimus’ presence was tucked away behind a heavy block. Sam brushed against it inquisitively—it was different than the blocks that Ratchet used to separate him from the neural network.

“I use medical-grade blocks, whereas Optimus’ are security-grade.” Ratchet answered his unspoken question.

Sam glanced at him curiously, “What’s the difference?”

“Functionally, very little. Medical-grade blocks are used to keep incapacitated patients locked in stasis until they are stable, but otherwise they fulfill the same purpose.”

Sam turned his attention back towards the block that separated him from Optimus’ mental presence, brushing against it experimentally.

“Can you feel that?”

Optimus inclined his helm slightly, “Yes, I can. The block only limits outgoing data, it does not impede my ability to access your comm channel.”

Sam tilted his head, openly intrigued, “I can’t feel you, but I can feel the block. Isn’t that a security risk? You’re not exactly hidden.”

“That is true,” Ratchet replied, approval evident in his voice, “If stealth was your objective, then you would need to employ additional security measures. Scouts and infiltrators have a host of programming and sub-routines intended to mask their connection to the neural network.”

“Bumblebee too?”

Ratchet nodded, “Bumblebee has some of the finest egress filtering and boundary protection programming that I have ever seen.”

Sam felt a warm swell of pride at the medic’s words, and he brushed against Bumblebee’s mental presence in response. He knew that Bumblebee was a talented scout—Optimus had called him the finest scout sparked since before the Golden Age—but it was another thing entirely to hear it from Ratchet, who was stingy with his praise.

He felt the medic nudge him expectantly from across their bond, and his attention returned to the matter at hand. He frowned, feeling along the block between him and Optimus, entirely uncertain how to reproduce it. Ratchet might as well have asked him to grow wings and learn how to fly.

Ratchet snorted loudly, unimpressed.

“That is not at all a fitting analogy. You have already demonstrated an aptitude for interfacing with the neural network.”

Sam huffed quietly. He was feeling frustrated and discouraged, and he hadn’t even attempted anything yet. Ratchet narrowed his optics at him, and then the medic’s presence suddenly filled his mind. Sam jerked back in surprise, unused to the invasiveness of the contact, but Ratchet persisted. Sam could feel his focus, felt him shift forward and _push_, and suddenly a mental block snapped into place. As soon as Ratchet’s mental presence receded, the block shivered and disappeared.

Sam blinked dumbly, completely astounded. He had felt everything, from start to finish. He _understood._

“What did you just do?” Sam demanded after he recovered from his shock.

“I used the Creator bond to establish a firewall on your behalf. Now you understand how it is done.”

Sam was blindsided by the rage that slammed into him as he realized what Ratchet was saying. The medic had physically taken control of him, using Sam’s own mind to create the firewall.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Sam hissed, his voice strangled by the intensity of his anger.

Ratchet’s expression noticeably cooled, “Are you finished with the histrionics? You did not know how to do it, and now you do.”

“Informed fucking consent, Ratchet.” Sam snapped, “You promised me.”

“That was not a medical procedure.” Ratchet replied curtly, “You’re a newspark Sam, I will occasionally have to take liberties with you.”

Sam felt himself go cold with anger and fear. He was distantly aware that Ratchet had pulled him back within the confines of the Creator bond, but he couldn’t have cared less in that moment. The knowledge that Ratchet was able to control him physically, however minutely, shook Sam to his core.

“Read my lips, Ratchet. _Never. Again_.”

“Sam.” Optimus rebuked gently, “I understand how disconcerting this is for you. Ratchet was only trying to help.”

Sam did not look at the Autobot leader, his eyes narrowed directly at Ratchet.

“I want your word that you won’t do that without my explicit consent.”

The medic stiffened in affront but before he could reply, Sam’s expression turned pleading.

_//Ratchet, please.//_

Ratchet was silent for a long moment, staring at him intently. Sam was aware of the medic’s scrutiny across their bond, and he made no attempt to hide his fear or desperation. Eventually, he felt a soft touch—reassuring and apologetic.

“Very well, Sam. Unless I have no other choice, I will adhere to your concept of informed consent in this regard as well.”

Sam nodded slowly, unable to meet his optics, “Thank-you.”

There was a brief pause, and then Sam found himself free of the Creator bond once again. The transition to the broader neural network was not as disorienting this time, and he recovered more quickly.

“Well, go on then.” Ratchet instructed, as though they had never argued.

“Are you serious?” Sam asked, exasperatedly.

“Completely. I didn’t go through all of that for nothing.”

Sam snorted at the dryness of his tone, but he turned his thoughts inwards as instructed. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to re-create Ratchet’s actions. It was surprisingly difficult to do, even though he objectively understood the process. He made several unsuccessful attempts, stifling the urge to swear, when his fourth attempt caused a block to snap into existence. He jerked back in surprise, and the block immediately disappeared.

“Well done, Sam.” Optimus said, quiet praise in his voice.

Sam frowned, gathering himself to try again. The firewall snapped into place with less effort this time, but it disappeared as soon as he let go.

“How do I make it stay?” He asked in confusion.

“You have to maintain your focus.”

Sam glanced at Ratchet incredulously, “You have got to be kidding me. Constantly?”

“It will get easier with practice.” Ratchet said.

He snorted in response, re-establishing the firewall in his mind. It snapped into place, blocking a portion of the neural network from his mental presence. He regarded the block for a long moment, before he realized something.

“If the block is only supposed to limit outgoing data, then why can’t I feel the neural network when it’s in place?”

“The firewall that I have showed you how to use is a base function, intended for newsparks. It prevents the transfer of both incoming and outgoing data.”

Sam frowned in consternation as he regarded the block in his mind. He could already feel the mental and physical tension of keeping it in place. It was like trying to hold a heavy object for an extended period of time, and he felt himself trembling with the strain. After another few moments, he abruptly released his hold and exhaled a shaky sigh.

“Well, this is awful.” He said conversationally.

Ratchet ex-vented a loud snort, “Come now, you can do better than that.”

Sam pinned the medic with a withering glare.

“It’s hard.”

“It is.” Ratchet agreed blithely, “Now once again, just as you did before.”

“You and Dr. Lewis are made for each other.” He replied peevishly, before obediently re-establishing the firewall. This time, the strain was immediate and he grimaced deeply. He narrowed his eyes, focusing every ounce of his willpower on maintaining the stupid thing. By the time that he lost his grip, he was pale and sweating. 

“Better.” Ratchet complimented, “We will try again later.”

Sam felt a swell of relief as the Creator bond flared around his mental presence again, separating him from the neural network. He scrubbed a shaky hand across his face, glancing up at his companions.

“Is it like that for everyone?” He asked, and Ratchet lifted a pauldron in a shrug.

“Newsparks take to firewalling differently.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at the medic, perfectly understanding the subtext. Before he could call him out on it, however, he felt Bumblebee’s gentle touch across their bond. He turned in surprise, watching as the scout stepped into the clinic. He inclined his helm towards Optimus and Ratchet, and then strode forward to crouch down beside him.

_//You did well.//_ Bumblebee praised, soft and sincere.

Sam snorted loudly, _//You’re a terrible liar.//_

His guardian whistled at him in affronted amusement.

_//I’m an infiltrator, we are excellent liars.//_

Sam laughed quietly, reaching out to shove at the scout’s chest plating. Bumblebee obliged him by pretending to rock backwards, as though Sam could move him a single inch.

“Sam, your blood sugar is dipping.” Ratchet interrupted them sharply, “Go get something to eat.”

He glanced up at the medic in surprise, taken aback by his clinical expression. Before he could assure Ratchet that he felt fine, the older mechanoid turned to pin Bumblebee with a serious look.

“Take your bonded to the mess hall, and make sure that he eats something.”

Sam rolled his eyes, “I have ears.”

“Then use them, and do as I say.”

* * *

By the time that Bumblebee had driven him to the North Quad entrance, Sam was feeling shaky and weak. He climbed out of the scout’s cab, and the door snapped shut as Bee’s holoform materialized beside him. He murmured at the holoform appreciatively as it pulled open the quad door for him, and together they walked towards the mess hall. By the time that Sam sat down a short while later, he felt truly miserable. Bumblebee pushed a bottle of orange juice towards him, and Sam accepted it gratefully, drinking deeply without comment. They sat there for a long while, Sam with his head pitched forward and Bumblebee with an inscrutable expression on his face.

It was the better part of twenty minutes before Sam’s hands stopped trembling and he felt well enough to eat. He started picking his way through his lunch, glancing across the table at his guardian.

“That was weird.” He said, and Bumblebee inclined his head in agreement.

“Ratchet suspects that the hypoglycemia was caused by the strain of maintaining your firewalls.”

“Let me guess, it’ll get better with practice?” He asked, mimicking the medic’s familiar mantra. The faint smile that pulled at Bumblebee’s lips confirmed Sam’s suspicions, and he laughed lightly. When Sam finished his meal, Bumblebee gathered up his tray and they walked it towards the receptacle near the entrance to the mess hall. The scout scraped the remainder of his lunch into the garbage, and then piled the dishes neatly at the designated location. Sam watched him, equal parts amused and appreciative, and then they headed out of the mess hall.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Sam murmured.

“I am building some good will.” The scout said, tossing him an apologetic smile that made Sam immediately suspicious.

“Come again?”

“It’s noon, time for your PT.”

Sam groaned out loud, remembering Dr. Lewis’ instructions. He glanced beseechingly at the holoform.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Bumblebee met his gaze directly, his blue eyes sympathetic, “Sorry, Sam.”

Sam huffed a sigh, but continued towards his quarters without further protest. When they arrived, Bumblebee opened the door and Sam stepped passed the scout into his living space. Bumblebee followed him into the apartment, moving to sit down on the coffee table. Sam toed off his shoes, placing his cell phone and badge on the table by the door. He glanced towards his guardian, who gestured towards the couch in front of him. Sam grimaced in resignation and ambled forward to sit down. He fumbled with the straps on his sling, before Bumblebee reached up to help him out of the restraining equipment.

“Thanks.” Sam muttered, tossing the sling onto the coffee table.

With a sardonic quirk of his lips, Bumblebee handed him the rubber ball that Dr. Lewis had left him that morning. Sam rolled his eyes in tolerant irritation, and then tucked the ball into his armpit and started the set of exercise that the physician had shown him. He frowned deeply as the bones and muscles in his shoulder pulled painfully.

Bumblebee watched him with the intentness of a hawk watching a mouse. After Sam started the second set of exercises, Bee reached out and placed a restraining hand against his arm.

“You’re pulling too deeply.” He admonished.

Sam snorted, rolling his eyes.

“When did you become an expert in physical therapy?”

“My personal experiences notwithstanding, I downloaded everything that I could find about physiotherapy from the Internet after your injury.”

Sam quirked a smile at the scout, touched.

“Overkill, but thanks.”

Bumblebee glanced at him in exasperation, a look that said ‘_not hardly’_ as clearly as words. He moved his hand to press gently against the bandages on Sam’s shoulder, the other hand coming up to grasp his upper bicep. The way that he twisted Sam’s torso pulled at the staples in his shoulder, but he barely noticed. Sam’s pulse quickened at the feeling of Bumblebee’s hands on his body, firm and gentle, and he felt a blush spreading across his cheeks as arousal pooled low in his belly.

The scout looked at him sharply, and Sam’s blush deepened until it practically radiated heat.

“Bumblebee—“ He stammered in mortification, but his guardian interrupted him before he could continue.

“Did you think that I didn’t know?”

Bumblebee’s voice was soft, and his grip on Sam’s bicep tightened minutely. Sam stared at the scout in stunned disbelief, unable to reply.

“Did you think that I would object?” He continued mildly, “To you?”

There was something in his guardian’s countenance, sincere and intimate, that sent a kick of heat straight through him. Bumblebee’s expression sharpened knowingly, and he learned forward until his lips brushed against the shell of Sam’s ear.

“As if I could ever. I would have you in any way that I can.”

His guardian’s words were a promise and a suggestion both, and Sam whimpered softly—getting so hard so fast that it left him feeling lightheaded. Bumblebee smiled at him, fond and understanding, before leaning forward to brush his lips against Sam’s mouth. The touch was feather-light and slow, as though he were giving Sam the opportunity to pull away. Instead, Sam surged forward, bringing his hands up to grab either side of the holoform’s face, and he kissed him back desperately.

The kiss was awkward at first, with fumbling lips and clicking teeth, but Bumblebee was a fast learner. Within moments, the scout was kissing him back in a way that left Sam gasping. Distantly, he wondered how the holoform was able to replicate warmth and wetness—it was different than a human’s mouth, but it was damn close. 

_Thank God for mimicry circuits._ He thought wildly, and he felt a pulse of amusement from across their bond.

Bumblebee reached towards him, tugging at his shirt insistently. Sam leaned forward, helping him pull the restrictive clothing off over his head. He didn’t know where it landed—Bumblebee could have incinerated it on the spot, for all that he cared—and the scout immediately pushed him back against the couch.

Bumblebee’s fingers lingered on his chest, as the holoform tilted its head considerately. His eyes slowly roamed over Sam’s torso, and he felt a surge of self-consciousness. A half-smile quirked the corner of Bee’s mouth, and the scout didn’t give him the chance to dwell on his insecurity. He learned forward, dipping his mouth to trail against Sam’s jaw. Sam’s eyes squeezed closed, as his breath stuttered out of him.

His guardian moved slowly, mouthing his way along Sam’s jaw to nip at his earlobe. When Sam gasped softly, Bumblebee paused for a fraction of a second before repeating the action. Sam groaned in the back of his throat, and he could feel Bumblebee’s satisfaction through their bond. The scout mouthed at the sensitive spot below his ear, working the skin with lips and tongue, until Sam was burning with need.

“Bee…” He gasped, trailing off as the scout worked down the column of his throat, alternating between soft kisses and sharp little nips. When he got to the hallow of his throat, Bumblebee pulled back slightly to regard him. The scout’s eyes narrowed marginally in concentration as he raised his hands to stroke across Sam’s chest. His fingertips ghosted over a nipple, which pebbled immediately. He took the hardened flesh between his finger and thumb, rolling it experimentally, before leaning down to lave at it with his tongue.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Sam groaned, his breath hitching in his throat. His erection was painfully hard, straining against the front of his jeans, and Bumblebee hadn’t even touched him yet—not as he obviously meant to.

Bumblebee bit and licked at Sam’s nipple before leaning over to deliver the same treatment to its twin. His hands moved over Sam’s flanks the entire time, thumbs rubbing firm circles into his skin. Sam hazarded a glance down, and he noticed the intent look on the scout’s face. It was a familiar expression, one that he frequently got while working, and Sam abruptly realized that Bumblebee was reconnoitering. The yellow scout had millions of years’ experience in gathering intel, and he was applying those skills to fastidiously explore Sam’s body. Whenever Bee ghosted over a sensitive patch of skin, the scout would focus in, working it with lips and tongue and teeth, until Sam was gasping desperately. Then he would move on, mapping out Sam’s erogenous zones like a fucking cartographer.

Bumblebee glanced up at him, a smirk curling the corner of his lips, and Sam realized that the scout had been following his train of thought. As if to demonstrate what he had learned, Bee reached up to pinch Sam’s nipple lightly, just enough to hurt, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut as his head fell back against the couch. Sam heard the scout’s quiet laugh, before he returned to his exploration of Sam’s body. When Bumblebee bit sharply at his hipbone, Sam thought he might actually come in his pants. Bumblebee must have sensed his tension, because he backed off slightly, letting Sam catch his breath. He leaned forward, brushing his lips over Sam’s mouth, and Sam kissed him back hungrily.

After a few moments, Bumblebee pulled back and looked Sam in the eye, as his fingers hooked into the hem of his pants and tugged. Sam understood immediately that the scout was asking for permission, was allowing Sam to dictate the terms of what happened between them.

“Fuck yes.” He breathed, planting his feet on the floor as his hands went for his fly. Bumblebee swatted his fingers away, reaching out to unfasten his jeans, before hooking his fingers in the fabric and pulling it down over Sam’s hips. He repeated the motion with Sam’s boxers, and then he was sitting in front of his guardian completely naked. Bumblebee pulled back, his gaze roaming over Sam’s body with a sharp glint in his eye—possessiveness, Sam knew, and the knowledge obliterated any self-consciousness that he might have felt.

Sam’s cock was painfully hard now, leaking precum all over his belly. Bumblebee reached his hand out, curiously running his fingers through the thin fluid, and then he leaned forward and nipped the inside of Sam’s upper thigh sharply. Sam choked out a whimper, moving to grasp his straining erection, before Bumblebee caught his hand and pressed it onto the couch.

The message was clear: _no touching._

“I swear to God, Bumblebee.” He threatened, and Sam felt the ghost of a smile curl the scout’s lips from where his face was pressed against Sam’s leg. Bee mouthed at the tender skin, soothing away the sting of his bite. Sam gripped the edge of the couch cushions until his knuckles turned white, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt Bumblebee shift, and then his eyes flew open as the scout wrapped his fingers around Sam’s cock. He did not move his hand, merely stroking the edge of his thumb around the glans, as he stared at Sam intently. Sam stared back pleadingly, rendered completely incapable of speech. He jerked his hips slightly, trying to send the scout a message, but he merely pressed Sam’s hip down into the couch. After an agonizing moment, Bumblebee began to move his hand. It was clear that he was experimenting, varying his grip and speed until Sam’s toes curled against the carpet. Heat pooled tight and low in his belly, and Sam opened his mouth—to utter a warning or a plea, he couldn’t say—before Bumblebee relaxed his grip completely.

Sam’s eyes snapped open and he looked down at the scout in disbelief, who was staring back at him with a knowing glint in his eye. All at once, Sam realized that Bumblebee was _teasing_ him.

“Are you fucking _kidding _me?” He groaned, but before he could curse any further at the scout, Bumblebee started rhythmically pumping Sam’s cock. Sam tossed his head back, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the couch cushions, and he became aware of a litany pouring out from his mouth.

“Please, oh my God, I’m so close. Bee, please. Bumblebee—_fuck!”_

Sam came with a sharp cry, the force of his orgasm slamming through him as waves of pleasure pulsed up and out of him. Semen striped his belly as Sam shook apart, heaving great gasping breaths as he tried to get air into his starving lungs. When he came back to himself an interminable time later, he glanced down to see Bumblebee bowed over Sam’s lap, his eyes closed and completely still.

“Bee?” He asked weakly, and the scout slowly opened his eyes to meet his own, “I think you broke me.”

Sam’s words startled a bark of laughter from the holoform, whose expression warmed with fond amusement.

“The feeling is mutual.”

Sam struggled back up into a sitting position, from where he had slid down on the couch. He watched as Bumblebee’s gaze trailed down to the tacky mess that was cooling on his stomach, and Sam grimaced.

“Yeah, it’s a messy ordeal. Sorry.”

Bumblebee had the nerve to look openly intrigued. He reached a finger forward to run through the sticky fluid, and then brought it to his mouth. The sight of the scout licking semen off his finger was easily the most obscene thing that Sam had ever seen in his life. His dick twitched in interest, and Bumblebee smirked at him knowingly.

Sam reached down, grabbing his boxers and wiping himself off. He wondered idly whether seconds would count as ‘strenuous physical exercise’ in Ratchet’s mind, when his thoughts screeched to a halt.

“Ohmygod.” He said so quickly that the words slurred together, mortification slamming into him with all the force of a thermonuclear explosion. _Ratchet._

Bumblebee laughed out loud, openly amused.

“Relax, he firewalled you as soon as he realized what was happening.”

Sam’s focus turned inwards in abject horror, and he realized that Bumblebee was right—the bond was still and silent as a tomb. The knowledge did little to abate the embarrassment that burned through him.

“I’m never going to be able to look him in the optics again.”

Bumblebee’s amusement deepened.

“We are a bonded pair Sam, Ratchet understands what that entails.” Bumblebee assured him, before adding, “And your privacy is his responsibility, not yours.”

Sam huffed, glancing down at the scout who was still crouched in front of him.

“Well that’s good, because otherwise he’d need lava soap and an SOS pad to scrub his processors.”

Bumblebee chuckled, pushing to his feet and sitting down on the coffee table. He reached forward to pull the throw blanket off the arm of the couch, and draped it over Sam’s shoulders. His fingers lingered, tracing the soft skin of Sam’s throat. Sam tilted his head obligingly, shivering as nails caught his skin. Something softened on Bumblebee’s face, his expression becoming tender. 

“You feel things so purely… it’s addictive.” He murmured, as though to himself.

“Bee, there was nothing pure about what we just did.”

Bumblebee’s eyes widened in surprise, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

“Perhaps not.” He conceded with a grin.

“How did you learn to do that?” Sam asked, and the expression on the holoform’s face became mildly exasperated.

“Sam, I have access to terabytes of information about human sexuality. The rest I inferred from what I know about you, as well as my own preferences.”

Sam glanced at the scout, taken aback.

“Your preferences?”

Bumblebee’s lips twitched, as though he were trying to repress a smile.

“Cybertron is over a billion years old, and intelligent Transformer life has been around for almost as long. Did you not think that, in all that time, someone would have developed pleasurable interfacing software?”

Sam felt himself blush in embarrassment, because in fact it had not occurred to him. Sam had assumed that because Transformers did not sexually reproduce, that they did not have sex at all.

“We don’t have sex, at least not in human terms.” Bumblebee corrected him, “We interface, an exchange of current that induces a processor overload.”

Sam tilted his head curiously, “So did you… overload?”

Bumblebee smiled at him fondly, as though amused by his naivety, “I did.”

Sam was overcome with a wave of emotion, and he reached out his good hand to pull Bumblebee down into a tight kiss. The scout obliged him, before pulling back to place a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“Get dressed, Ratchet will want you back at the _Ark_ before long.”

Sam groaned, remembering his embarrassment. Bumblebee grinned in response, reaching down to grab his pants, which he tossed into his lap. Sam stood, holding the blanket closed with one hand and holding his jeans with the other, before obediently walking towards the bedroom.

He was aware of Bumblebee’s eyes on his back the entire way.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was completely blown away by the response to my last chapter. Thank-you so much to everyone who commented, bookmarked/subscribed, and left kudos. I sincerely appreciate each and every one of you.

As it turned out, Ratchet did not ask him to return to the _Ark_.

A little over an hour after Bumblebee had wholeheartedly introduced Sam to the more intimate aspects of their bond, they found themselves walking together through North Quad. The Hive was busy, given the late afternoon hour, but Sam was barely paying attention to the people that he passed. His mind was turned inwards, enjoying the feeling of Bumblebee’s mental presence. The more he interacted with that warm glow in his mind, the better he became at sensing the fleeting _impressions_ and _emotions_ from the scout. Bumblebee was endlessly patient, and Sam could feel the occasional flash of tolerant amusement from him.

Without warning, Sam suddenly felt a _shift _in his mind. The firewalls that had been separating him from the neural network fell away, and his mental space widened abruptly. The unexpected change was disorienting, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the accompanying wave of lightheadedness. Bumblebee made a soft sound of concern beside him, but Sam waved him off.

Abruptly, Ratchet’s voice cut through his mind.

_//Establish a firewall and join me in the medical bay.//_

The medic’s words were gruff but not unkind, and Sam shook his head slowly.

“He might be the most passive aggressive person that I have ever met.” Sam grumbled, frowning in concentration as he erected a firewall. Once it was in place, the noise of the neural network reduced dramatically. He could still feel glimpses of activity, but they were muted and distant. The strain of maintaining the block was immediately apparent, and Sam hated the feeling. It was a throbbing ache in his mind, a persistent discomfort that reminded Sam of his brief experience with restless leg syndrome.

“Better not keep him waiting, or that passive aggression will quickly lose its passive edge.” Bumblebee warned, and Sam knew that he was speaking from experience.

“No need to tell me. I still owe Dave Carter for running interference when I first arrived on base.”

Bumblebee’s lips quirked in amusement as he turned, heading towards the North Quad entrance to the bridge. Sam learned very quickly that maintaining the firewall was exponentially more difficult when in motion. It was one thing to sit quietly with his eyes shut and his concentration turned inwards, but it was another thing entirely to try to maintain his hold while navigating through the bridge. He lost his grip a half a dozen times before they made it to the medical bay, by which time he was in a foul temper. That bad mood distracted him from his previous embarrassment right up until the moment that Ratchet turned around to greet him.

The medic’s arms were crossed over his chassis in a characteristically Ratchet-like fashion. The exasperation that was evident on his features made Sam blush hotly, and Ratchet snorted in response. He crouched down, regarding Sam closely as he approached.

“Unless your preference is for every Autobot on base to be privy to this conversation, I suggest you get that firewall back up.” Ratchet said mildly, by way of greeting.

Sam stared at him in disbelief, but the medic merely tilted his head expectantly. Realizing that he was perfectly serious, Sam turned his attention inwards and erected another firewall. The mental strain was immediate, but Sam focused his full attention towards maintaining the block. He would be damned if Roddy was going to listen to a word of this. 

Ratchet’s mouthplates twitched minutely.

“Well, suffice to say, you seem to have found the motivation that you were lacking.”

Sam glared up at the medic, the strain in his mind rekindling his irritation. Ratchet was entirely unaffected by the heat in his gaze, instead regarding him for a long moment before speaking through their bond.

_//I will say this once and only once. Yes, I am fully aware of what transpired earlier. No, I am neither angry nor offended. So long as you respect your limitations, I will respect your privacy as much as I can do so.//_

By the time that the medic had finished speaking, Sam’s blush had returned and deepened to a vivid crimson. It had been awkward enough messing around with Mikaela when his parents had been home, and they had been blissfully ignorant to the proceedings.

“Sam, you are in no way discreet. I assure you, they knew.” Ratchet replied dryly, and Sam’s eyes snapped back to the medic’s face.

“Ratchet!” Sam groaned in mortified disbelief, “I am begging you, please shut up.”

The medic inclined his helm in acknowledgement, but Sam was sure that he hadn’t imagined the amused glint in his optics.

“Very well then, I have said my piece. We shall speak no more on the subject.” Ratchet acquiesced, and Sam felt a moment of relief before the medic asked, “Tell me how that firewall feels.”

Sam huffed, unsure whether the change of subject was an improvement.

“It feels like shit.”

“Succinct.” Ratchet replied wryly, “Care to be more elaborate?”

“It’s heavy and uncomfortable, and it’s giving me a headache.”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed in consideration as his expression became thoughtful. Despite his best efforts, it was no time at all before Sam lost his grip and the firewall disappeared again. He groaned in frustration, sinking down to sit on the cold floor of the medical bay.

“You said it would get easier with practice.” He complained. Bumblebee transformed into his bipedal mode, and crouched down beside him. Sam could feel the scout’s sympathy and support through their bond, and he brushed against him appreciatively.

“You are far too impatient.” Ratchet admonished, “It takes hundreds of years for newsparks to on-line, it will take more than a few attempts to learn the skills that you need.”

Sam lifted his good hand to rub at his temples, where a headache was already throbbing. His mind felt wrung out and weak—the mental equivalency of muscle overexertion, he surmised. After a long moment, he felt Ratchet’s presence in his mind, a tentative touch, and he glanced up at the medic inquiringly.

“Let me show you another way.” He said, and Sam realized that he was asking for permission to use their bond to manipulate Sam’s abilities again. He jerked back, narrowing his eyes at the medic suspiciously.

“What do you want to do?” He asked, tensing from head to toe.

“Nothing any more invasive than last time.” Ratchet reassured him.

Sam frowned, considering the medic’s request. The idea of being controlled by another person was deeply disquieting, even if that person was Ratchet whom he trusted completely. Despite his reluctance and fear, however, Sam knew that his current attempts were unsustainable and that something had to change.

“Will you stop, if I ask you to?” He asked quietly.

“Of course, Sam.”

Sam sighed softly, before steeling himself.

“Alright, go for it.”

He felt Ratchet’s presence enter his mind, and although Sam was prepared for it, the sensation was still disconcerting and invasive. However, rather than pushing in as he had before, Ratchet waited for him to adjust to the sensation. When Sam had relaxed a few moments later, he felt a gentle nudge in his mind.

_//I am going to try establishing a filtering firewall. Let me know at once if you feel uncomfortable.//_

Sam blinked in surprise at the unexpected contact, but he nodded in understanding. There was a pause, then Ratchet slowly _pulled_ and _pushed_, and then a firewall sprang into existence in his mind. Sam tilted his head considerately, eyes narrowed in thought, as he ran mental fingers over the block. This was a different entity entirely—it allowed him to sense the neural network, as though through a lens, while still walling off his mental presence.

“Can you do that again?” Sam asked, and he felt a touch of assent from the medic before he repeated the process. This firewall felt more comfortable in his mind, like a well-worn glove, rather than a cement wedge. Sam reached out, frowning in concentration. The medic had been deliberately slow with his actions this time, and Sam had a better understanding of the process as a result. It only took him two attempts before he was able to establish the new firewall in his mind. Although this block was considerably easier to maintain, it was not long before he was sweating with tension. Ratchet brushed against him restrainingly, and Sam obediently dropped the firewall with a relieved sigh. 

He could feel Ratchet’s thoughtful scrutiny in his mind, and he glanced up to see a contemplative expression on the medic’s faceplates.

“What?” Sam asked.

“I am taken aback at how well you adapted to that.” Ratchet admitted, although there was a note of warm approval in his voice, “Filtering firewalls are more complicated than basic blocks.”

“It felt more comfortable.” Sam said, stretching his legs in front of him.

“So I could tell.” Ratchet acknowledged.

The medic allowed Sam to take a brief break in order to drink a bottle of juice that he produced from thin air. At Sam’s shocked reaction, Ratchet patiently explained about their ability to access subspace. Sam turned to Bumblebee, unable to believe this was the first time that he was hearing about it, but the scout merely shrugged, as though this was not an astonishing revelation. Sam huffed, giving him a mental shove, before he twisted the cap off the bottle of juice. He drank quickly, thankful that it was pulp-free, and capped the empty bottle moments later. Without needing to be told, Sam re-established the filtering firewall in his mind. 

He could feel Ratchet’s presence through their bond, critical and assessing, as he brushed against the block.

“It’s well made.” Ratchet consented, and then he cautioned, “Brace yourself.”

Sam grimaced, instinctively fortifying the block, when he felt a sharp _shove_ against the firewall. To his surprise, the firewall shivered, but maintained its integrity.

If the expression on Ratchet’s faceplates was anything to go by, the medic was equally surprised.

“Well done, Sam.” He murmured, and there was genuine praise in his voice. Ratchet seemed to consider him for a long time before continuing, “I am going to leave you outside of the confines of the Creator bond for the afternoon, so that you can continue to practice establishing and maintaining your blocks. Let me know immediately if you need a break.”

Sam climbed to his feet, trying to keep the frown off his face. The filtering firewall might have been a significant improvement over the basic block, but it was still an annoying strain in his mind. Ratchet watched him in silence for a long moment, before he said unexpectedly, “Go get some fresh air. You have been stuck down here for too long.”

Sam looked up at Ratchet, taken aback by the intensity of his expression. He tentatively reached for the medic across their bond, and was met with a quiet touch in response. Suddenly, Sam understood—Ratchet was feeling contrite.

He smiled faintly at the medic, “Thanks for your help today, Ratch. I appreciate it.”

The medic did not reply, his expression inscrutable, and Sam stepped close to Bumblebee as he transformed into his alt mode. Sam was halfway inside the cab when he heard Ratchet’s mental voice, gruff but sincere.

_//You’re welcome.//_

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Bumblebee pulled up to Simpson Point, a sandy outcropping about a mile and a half from base. The point was dotted with scrubby brush, but the thin strip of white sand beach was pristine. The area was surprisingly quiet, given its close proximity to base, owing to the unfavorable swimming conditions. Simpson Point was full of coral reef that wreaked havoc on feet and shins, and people opted to swim in the lagoon on the opposite side of the base.

Sam climbed out of Bumblebee’s cab slowly, his eyes closing in pleasure at the feeling of hot sunshine on his skin. When he searched his memory, he realized that he hadn’t been outside during the daytime since before Ripcord’s attack. Sam open his eyes, glancing around the familiar beach. He and Bumblebee used to come here often, in the painful months after he had learned about the Allspark energy radiating from his cells. It was quiet and close to home, not unlike the reservoir back in Tranquility.

Sam ran a hand over Bumblebee’s gleaming exterior, which had warmed pleasantly in the sunlight.

“Do you remember Christmas?” He asked, surprised by his own question.

Bumblebee inched forward, bumping against his legs.

_//I do.//_

Sam was silent for a long moment, staring out over the cerulean expanse of water.

“I couldn’t have imagined this, then.” He said quietly, “It wouldn’t have been possible.”

He felt Bumblebee’s soft touch in his mind, and Sam’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into the feeling. He would never get tired of this, not ever. Not even if he lived to be as old as Optimus Prime.

He felt Bumblebee’s gentle agreement through their bond, and Sam ran his fingers over the scout’s hood.

“What does this feel like?” He asked, curiously.

Bumblebee made a soft sound in consideration.

“Nothing like how your skin processes the sensation of touch. I interpret pressure, texture, and temperature. If those exceed a given threshold, the sensation is interpreted as pain by my processors.”

Sam frowned minutely, “So you don’t enjoy it when I touch you?”

Bumblebee brushed against him, reassuring and amused.

“I didn’t say that. I have enjoyed your touch since we first met.” Bumblebee said, and then his voice became soft and intense, “More so, since I realized the extent of your regard towards me.”

Sam glanced at his guardian in surprise, “When was that?”

Bumblebee whistled at him softly, amusedly, “I noticed your attachment several months after Mission City, but I first noticed your attraction shortly after the _Ark _had arrived.”

Sam was taken aback, “Really? Because I didn’t know myself until just before I was attacked.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam asked, frowning in confusion. Bumblebee’s mental presence became serious and unusually reserved.

“Sam, for all of the incredible things that you have accomplished, you are very young. I did not want to broach the subject when so much of your life was in flux—when you were adrift and vulnerable.” He paused, and then Sam felt a warm swell of affection, “I have lived for over three million years. You were worth waiting for a little while longer.”

Sam snorted, shoving against the Camaro.

“Smooth talker.”

Bumblebee paused suddenly, his attention turning outwards. A moment later, Sam became aware of two bright spots on the neural network, which were quickly approaching. He frowned, reinforcing the firewall in his mind, as he brushed against Bumblebee inquisitively.

“Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.” Bumblebee explained, and Sam felt a twinge of apprehension. He could see the cloud of dust that the twins were kicking up as they approached, evidentially returning from patrol. Sam held his breath, hoping that they would turn east towards the base, but instead they slowed as they neared the crossroads and drove in their direction. Despite Sam’s apprehension, he had to admire the brilliance of their spark signatures. He could understand now what Bumblebee had meant about twin sparks, for that is what they were—identical and striking, glistening like crystal sculptures in his mind. Sam found himself forced to admit that their vanity was not baseless—they were beautiful.

The twins pulled to a stop and transformed. Sam felt Bumblebee’s insistent nudge, and he stepped aside so that his guardian could do the same. The sun was low and mellow, glinting brightly off their shining exteriors as they walked forwards, their pedes sinking into the soft loam of the roadside. Sunstreaker stopped a short distance away, looking down at Sam with his brilliant blue optics.

“I am glad to see that you are doing well.” He said, tilting his head considerately, “Your firewalls are improving.”

Sam blinked at him stupidly, completely blindsided by the compliment.

“Thank-you.” He replied awkwardly, after a moment.

Sunstreaker hesitated, before lowering down to one knee in front of him.

“I regret that I was unable to prevent Ripcord’s actions. He was a mentor and a friend, I should have suspected something.”

Sam was taken aback by the sincerity in his words, and he frowned minutely.

“Ripcord wasn’t your fault, Sunstreaker. He fooled Prowl and Ultra Magnus, you weren’t to blame.”

Sunstreaker regarded him closely, his expression a closed book.

“That is magnanimous of you. I am not sure that I would be as forgiving in your place.”

Sam scoffed lightly, but there was no heat in it.

“Remind me never to piss you off, then.”

To Sam’s surprise, his words made the yellow warrior laugh softly. Sunstreaker tilted his head, regarding him intently for a long moment, before his mental presence brushed against him. The touch was surprisingly gentle, almost tender. Bumblebee made a low, warning trill from where he stood behind Sam, and Sunstreaker glanced up at him. As though realizing himself, the warrior murmured an apology and withdrew his mental presence. A moment later, he straightened and looked down at Sam with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“It is… refreshing to feel a newspark signature after all of this time.”

Sideswipe stepped towards him, warbling pointedly in Cybertronian. Sunstreaker glanced towards his twin, his faceplates pulling up in exasperation. Without another word, Sunstreaker stepped back, transforming into his Maserati alt mode before driving off. Sideswipe followed suit a moment later, the two sport cars kicking up dust as they accelerated towards the base. Sam watched until the roar of their engines faded into the distance, and then he turned to pin his guardian with an inquiring look.

“Care to explain what the hell that was all about?”

It was only then that Sam noticed the stiffness in Bumblebee’s frame, and the way that his optics tracked the retreating alt modes.

“Bee?” He asked, uncertainly.

“Sunstreaker has a soft spot for newsparks.” He said at last, although his words in no way assuaged the confusion that Sam felt. He brushed against the scout’s mental presence, noting his tension through their bond. After a moment, Bumblebee ex-vented softly and crouched down beside him.

“Sunstreaker could have been a Creator mechanoid, in another life. The loss of the Allspark was difficult for him to accept.”

Sam narrowed his eyes at Bumblebee, suddenly defensive and angry.

“I am not the Allspark.” He snapped.

“I know that, and so does Sunstreaker.” Bumblebee reassured him, “Newsparks are considered precious to my species; as a Creator-sparked mechanoid that is doubly true for Sunstreaker.”

Bumblebee’s voice dropped an octave in irritation as he continued, “Regardless of his base programming, he should not have pressed in on you like that—he’s bonded, he knows better than most.”

“Knows what better than most?”

Bumblebee’s expression intensified as he leaned forward, pressing close to Sam’s body.

“Just how possessive spark bonded can be of one another.”

Something about Bumblebee’s tone, low and throaty, hit Sam right in the stomach. He reached out a hand, running it gently over Bumblebee’s chest plating. The scout’s optics shuttered slowly, before a whine escaped his vocoder as Sam’s fingers ghosted over his spark casing. Sam could feel his interest through their bond—it wasn’t arousal, as Sam understood it, but it was definitely heated and urgent. Sam moved close to his mental presence, brushing against it eagerly, and Bumblebee’s helm pitched forward.

“Show me.” He breathed, his heart starting to beat harder in his chest, “Can you?”

Bumblebee opened his optics, searching Sam’s face with a quiet desperation that Sam understood all too well. He pressed his palm over Bumblebee’s spark casing like a promise.

“Yours.” He murmured, staring at the blue glow emanating from between his fingers, //_Yours_.//

Bumblebee made a long, low sound that was so primal that it was almost pained. His servo came up to rest against Sam’s back, and then Sam felt a soft touch in his mind. He leaned into the feeling, brushing back against Bumblebee’s mental presence, when the touch turned electric.

Sam gasped sharply, going rigid in surprise. Bumblebee’s optics burned as they watched him, and the scout repeated the gesture. Liquid heat poured through Sam’s mind, and he moaned loudly in response. It was unlike anything that Sam had felt in his life—it was pleasurable as sin, as hot as plasma fire. It burned through his synapses before fading away, leaving him achingly hard and gasping in response.

“Do that again.” He demanded breathlessly. Bumblebee whistled at him, long and low, and then the scout obliged him. Sam leaned against Bumblebee’s chassis with a deep groan, pitching his head forward until it rested against his spark chamber. Bumblebee’s mental presence pressed in close, and Sam felt their bond flare to life. At once, Sam was feeling what Bumblebee was feeling—his own sexual arousal combined with Bumblebee’s building overload, and Sam whimpered in response. He leaned into Bumblebee’s mental presence desperately, and then the scout initiated another charge. 

Sam knew it was coming before it hit him, but its intensity was unlike the earlier pulses. He spasmed, going rigid in Bumblebee’s palm, as his fingers clutched desperately at his chest plating. Sam could feel Bumblebee’s chassis trembling slightly, and he moaned low in his throat at the realization that this was affecting his guardian every bit as much as it was affecting him.

He reached down desperately, fumbling with his fly before pulling his penis out of his trousers. He felt Bumblebee’s intention a moment before a fourth pulse hit him, and Sam knew that he was done for. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning heavily against Bumblebee’s chest plates as his orgasm rocked through him. A moment later, Bumblebee tumbled after him, and Sam was lost in a feedback loop as their shared pleasure reverberated through their bond between them.

It was a long while before Sam could open his eyes, before he felt cognizant enough to confront the enormity of what had just happened. He straightened slowly, zipping his pants back up, before looking at his guardian. Bumblebee was staring back at him in naked reverence, and Sam laid his hand over Bumblebee’s spark casing once again. The swell of emotion in his chest was painful in its intensity, but Sam couldn’t say the words aloud. He couldn’t even think them, because everyone that Sam loved went away. He swallowed hard, desperately willing his guardian—his bonded—to understand what it was that he could not articulate.

Bumblebee whistled softly, and Sam felt his mental presence wrap tightly around him.

_//Yours_.// Bumblebee’s voice murmured in his mind. It was a promise and a vow, both.

* * *

Bumblebee seemed to understand the fragility of Sam’s state of mind, for he stayed there with him until the sunlight was slanting across the ocean water. They stood in silence, Sam resting his forehead against Bumblebee’s spark casing, and Bumblebee bracketing Sam’s smaller body with his own. Their bond, however, was alight with _feeling_ and _impressions_, which passed between them too quickly for Sam to examine. Sam calmed, slowly but surely, to the point that he was capable of withdrawing from their bond-space.

“That was intense.” Sam admitted, glancing up at Bumblebee, “I feel like I should write Sunstreaker a thank-you card.”

Bumblebee whistled at him in affronted amusement, but Sam could feel his guardian’s quiet relief through their bond.

“No, seriously.” Sam continued, a teasing smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “Jealousy sex is a new turn-on, you can write that down.”

Bumblebee ex-vented a loud snort, stepping back to transform into his alt mode before popping open the driver’s side door. Sam stepped forward, climbing into the cab without hesitation.

“Dave Carter has been calling you.” Bumblebee said dryly, “You should call him back before he activates the tacnet.”

Sam laughed lightly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone as Bumblebee accelerated towards the base. Sure enough, Sam could see four missed calls and a text message from the agent. Sam shifted against the seat, stretching his legs, before thumbing Dave’s number.

The phone range twice, before Dave’s voice cut through the receiver.

“Where are you?”

“Driving,” He said vaguely, “What’s up?”

Sam could hear loud talking and laughing in the background of the call, and Dave shouted for someone to be quiet.

“I mean, why aren’t you here? It’s twenty minutes until kick-off.”

All at once, Sam remembered. The Super Bowl had been the day before, but due to the time zones, it had aired in the early hours of the morning. The Dining Facility was re-playing the game that evening, and it was Packers _versus_ Steelers. Dave had told him about it a couple of days after Sam had woken up from his injury, but he hadn’t thought anything else of it. As it turned out, strange alien bonds and mind-blowing sex were affective amnesiacs.

He was surprised by the thrill of anticipation that shot through him, and he briefly hoped that Ratchet’s firewalls were still in place because he was about to make some bad life choices.

“I’m on my way. Save me a seat.” He said, glancing at Bumblebee who revved his engine loudly. Sam disconnected the call, grinning wildly. He could feel Bumblebee’s good humor through their bond as the scout shot down the road in the direction of Downtown. It was less than ten minutes later that Sam was sliding into a seat at a table with Dave, Will Lennox, Robin Williams, and Killian Anderson, in a packed lounge.

Dave pushed a beer towards him, and Sam accepted it with a nod of thanks.

“Feel like losing any more money, Sam? I have a hundred dollars on the Packers.”

“Against the _Steelers_?” Sam asked incredulously, taking a long drink from his glass, “I’ll definitely take that action.”

Dave leaned forward, grinning, “I’m going to use your money to buy a signed Antonio Brown jersey, and then I’m going to display it in Ops.”

Sam chuckled loudly, glancing towards the others at the table.

“How much has he had to drink?”

“He’s sober, if you can believe it.” Williams replied dryly, and Lennox tossed a handful of peanuts at him.

“You don’t get to say shit. You’re an Eagles fan.”

Williams rolled his eyes, “I’m from Philly.”

Killian leaned back in his chair, catching the eye of a server who cut across the busy room towards them. She glanced down at the table, taking in the half-empty glasses, and asked, “Would you like another round?”

“I’m good for another drink. Sam, hurry up and finish that.”

“Can we have an order of wings?” Will asked, finishing his drink and setting the glass back on the table.

“Sure. 12, 24, or 48?”

“I’ll get 48.” Will said, waving off Dave who was already pulling out his card.

“Okay, mild, medium, hot, or flaming?”

Will glanced around the table, and Sam shrugged, “It’s your money, get whatever you want.”

“The hotter the better.” Will said with a quirk of his lips, and the server nodded before wading back through the sea of patrons towards the kitchen entrance.

Their conversation was interrupted a short while later by the start of the game, and Sam leaned back in his chair as he finished his drink. Dave nudged him with a good-natured grin.

“That white, gold, and green looks awful good out there. When was the last time the 49ers won the Super Bowl?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he replied, “1995.”

“What year were you born again?” The agent asked, although Sam was certain that he already knew the answer.

“2000.”

“Ouch.” Dave said with false sympathy in his voice, “The Packers last won in 2011, by the way.”

“Dave, you are the worst shit-talker I have ever met. The 49ers have won the Super Bowl five times, the Packers have only won twice.” Sam leaned forward, a shit-eating grin crossing his face, “When I win that bet, I’m also going to buy a Packers jersey, and then I’m going to let Ironhide use it for target practice.”

The server returned before Dave could reply, setting down their drinks and a colossal plate of wings. Sam took a deep drink of his beer and then he grabbed a wing off the plate. The spice from the sauce made his eyes burn in a foreboding sort of way, and Sam took a bite.

“Holy shit, it’s like battery acid.” Killian cursed, “Lord, fuck.”

Sam grinned, because it was definitely south Asian spicy, not white collar America spicy. He took another drink of his beer, before grabbing a second wing.

“Jesus Sam, slow down on those. Your asshole is going to feel like the Eye of Sauron tomorrow.”

Sam choked on a laugh, hastily taking another drink of his beer. He never failed to be impressed by the Marine’s ability to swear in new and creative ways. Sam heard Dave groan loudly, and he glanced at the screen to see that the Steelers had taken possession of the ball.

“Get used to that feeling.” Williams advised him, before tossing his wing bones back on the plate.

“I sign-off on your paycheck.” Dave threatened mildly, never taking his eyes off the television. When the Packers reclaimed possession a few minutes later, Dave shoved at Williams enthusiastically.

By the time that the half-time show was over, they had worked their way through most of the wings and two more pitchers of beer. The Steelers led the Packers 22-16, and Dave was starting to get tetchy—much to their combined amusement. They were finishing up the third quarter, when Sam blearily realized that he was back within the confines of the Creator bond. The realization sobered Sam up immediately—there was no longer any doubt as to whether Ratchet knew what he was doing.

Will handed Sam another beer, and he shrugged minutely.

_In for a penny, in for a pound._

* * *

When Sam woke up in the middle of the night with a roiling stomach, he just managed to make it to the bathroom before he was sick. The wings really did burn like battery acid on their way back up, and Sam moaned as he slumped down in front of the toilet. He sat there for an interminable time, retching miserably and reasonably sure that he was about to die, when he heard a dry voice above him.

“You little idiot.”

He glanced up to see Ratchet’s holoform staring down at him with an unimpressed expression on its face. Sam groaned, pressing his head into the crook of his arm.

“I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Ratchet.”

The medic snorted loudly, handing him a glass and a hand towel. Sam rubbed the towel over his sweaty face, before tentatively sipping at the water.

“I am not here to give you a lecture.”

“Then why are you here?” Sam asked caustically, as his stomach gave another threatening lurch.

Ratchet crouched down beside him, so that they were at an eye level with one another.

“Because even though you made some ‘bad life choices’ tonight, you were no more foolish than the other miscreants that you were with.”

“So go bother them.”

Ratchet tilted his head, his expression softening in exasperation.

“They aren’t my ward.”

When Sam was finished emptying the contents of his stomach, Ratchet guided him back into his bedroom to sit on the edge of his bed. The holoform helped Sam out of his clothes, which he realized that he had not changed before he passed out. When Sam fell back against the pillows with a miserable groan, Ratchet disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a fresh glass of water. He handed the glass to Sam, and produced two powdery tablets.

“An antiemetic.” He explained, but Sam swallowed them down without complaint.

Sam lay there for a long time, wishing desperately for sleep or for death, when Ratchet’s voice cut through the silence of his bedroom.

“Despite the consequences, I am glad that you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

Sam squinted at the holoform blearily, “Why do you say that?”

Ratchet smiled at him, his expression openly fond.

“Because Primus knows that you deserve it.” He said, snapping off the bathroom light, “And because you won’t remember any of this in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well friends, we are coming to the end. There are only two chapters left in this story. Thank-you for sticking with me, I never would have made it this far without your encouragement, feedback, and support.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you all so much for your feedback and support. I know that we are coming to the end of this story, but I would not have gotten this far without you. I have read every comment, looked at every account that left kudos or a bookmark. Your words have touched me in a way that I can't explain. 
> 
> Thank-you all.
> 
> ** Chapter warning** \- Explicit sexual content

Sam woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth. He groaned softly, pulling the blankets up to his chin, and willed the pain in his head to go away. He laid there for a long time, feeling wretched, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. Without moving, he reached out to Bumblebee, brushing against the soft glow of his mental presence. At once, Sam felt the scout’s attention focus on him with a gentle pulse of _welcome_ and _inquiry_.

_//Who won?//_

There was a warm swell of amusement across their bond.

_//Steelers, 24 to 18.//_

Despite the pounding in his skull, Sam grinned into his pillow. He slanted an eye open, reaching out to pull his cell phone off the nightstand. After a quick google search, Sam took a screenshot and then texted an image of a Packer’s jersey to Dave. As he tucked the phone under his pillow, he noticed the glass of water on his nightstand. Mentally thanking his drunk self, he pulled the glass towards him and took a tentative drink. When his stomach didn’t rebel, he took a deeper drink and then replaced the glass on the bedside table. Sam sank back down onto the pillows, debating whether to get up and find some acetaminophen. He eventually discarded the idea and rolled onto his side, pulling the blankets over his head as he closed his eyes.

He woke up again just after noon, by which time his headache had receded to a painful throbbing. He cautiously sat up, reaching for the glass and drinking the rest of the water. He realized all at once that, not only was he not nauseous, he was actually hungry. He quirked a smile, pushing aside the blankets as he climbed out of bed. As far as the side effects from having Allspark energy radiating from his cells went, manageable hangovers was definitely a tick in the ‘pro’ column.

Sam grabbed some clothes from the closet, and then made his way into the bathroom. The mess that greeted him there caused Sam to grimace deeply. Tossing his clothes on the counter, he pulled open the bathroom closet and retrieved some Lysol and a rag. He spent the next ten unpleasant minutes cleaning the toilet and the floor, revising his opinion about the generosity of drunk Sam. When he was finished, he stripped and climbed into the shower. He stood there for a long while under the warm spray, letting the water soothe away the last remnants of his headache.

By the time that Sam was dressed and on his way to the mess hall, he felt mostly fine.

He glanced at his cell phone as he walked, and noticed that Dave had texted him back. Grinning, Sam thumbed the notification, and saw a screenshot of an electronic bank transfer for a hundred dollars. Sam laughed loudly, earning him a few confused glances from passersby in the corridor. He paid them no mind, quickly texting back the personal aid.

_SamWitwicky: Graceful in defeat, I see._

Sam chuckled to himself, sliding his phone back into his pocket as he walked into the mess hall. The large cafeteria was bustling with activity, loud with animated talking and the clinking of dishware. As Sam grabbed a cafeteria tray and queued in line at the galley, he turned his attention inwards. He was unsurprised to find himself back within the confines of the Creator bond, but the solid block separating him from Ratchet’s mental presence took him aback. He had expected a haranguing from the medic as soon as he woke up, not radio silence.

_//I see no reason to lecture you. The hangover was sufficient punishment for your actions.//_ Ratchet’s dry voice cut across their bond unexpectedly, and he startled in response. He only just managed to steady the glass of water on his tray, glancing at the woman in line behind him with an apologetic smile.

_//Thanks, Ratch.//_ He replied wryly as he pushed his tray along the galley. He nodded to the cook, who was the same soldier who had greeted him the day before, and gestured towards the minced meat samosas. The cook loaded a serving onto a plate and handed it to him.

“Thanks… Jackson.” He said, glancing at the soldier’s nametape.

The cook grinned at him, “You’re welcome, Ambassador.”

Sam sighed inwardly, but nodded in farewell and continued down the galley.

_//You seem in good cheer.//_ Ratchet observed.

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, suddenly struck by the absurdity of his situation. He was walking through the mess hall, nodding politely at the people around him, while having a telepathic conversation with a millions-of-years old alien medic.

_//Well, I won a hundred dollars. What can I say?//_

Sam felt, rather than heard, Ratchet’s unimpressed snort. 

_//If you feel well enough to be facetious, then you’re well enough to get back to work.//_

Before Sam could reply, he felt the medic shift and then Sam was abruptly free of the confines of the Creator bond. Sam winced his eyes shut, reaching out to ready himself on the galley at the dizzying transition.

_//Come on, Ratchet. Have mercy.//_ Sam entreated, shaking his head as he walked towards the cash registers at the end of the mess hall. He felt a faint pulse of amusement from the medic, and he rolled his eyes in response.

_//Believe it or not, I am uninclined to enable irresponsible behavior.//_

Sam huffed a soft laugh, handing his identification badge to the heavyset older woman at the cash register. She keyed in his items and swiped his card, handing his badge back with a warm smile.

“Thanks.” Sam murmured, and then took his tray to a nearby table. Once he was sitting, he turned his attention towards the neural network. He stretched his mind outwards, feeling along the expansive mental space with a faint smile quirking the corner of his lips. The presence of multiple spark signatures, some familiar and some strange, glowed at him enticingly. It was ethereally beautiful and unquestionably _alien._

He moved forward, darting from signature to signature with growing curiosity and delight. There was Wheeljack, who was sunshine yellow and jolly, and Bluestreak, who was as gray as the fog rolling off the ocean on a cool morning. Further away, liquid quicksilver shone at him appealingly. He brushed tentatively against the signature, and felt a start of surprise followed by a surge of curiosity. His lips quirked at Perceptor’s touch in his mind, keen with scientific interest, before Sam’s attention was pulled away again.

He stretched himself as far as he could, moving from spark to spark. Jolt (blue as a butane flame), Mirage (crystal clear and cool), Hot Rod (_don’t think petal-soft!_), and Cliffjumper—

He pulled up short at the sight of Cliffjumper’s spark signature. It was pale purple, almost white, glinting like a winter amethyst in his mind. It was different than the other signatures that he had touched, glittering rather than glowing—

_//**Yo, Matrix boy! Get a room!**//_

Sam cried out in pain as the agonizingly loud voice cut through his mind like a scythe. He grabbed the sides of his head, squeezing his eyes shut, as Ratchet’s presence swelled in fury. Sam was back inside the confines of the Creator bond in an instant, but he could hardly tell through the ringing in his mind. He became aware of Bumblebee’s hot anger and concern, and he learned against the scout’s presence gratefully.

“Ambassador?” A voice asked urgently, “Are you alright?”

Sam forced his eyes open, glancing sidelong at two officers who were sitting at the table beside him. They had identical expressions of concern on their faces, and one was half-way out of his chair as though he were about to come over.

“I’m fine, I’m sorry.” He managed through gritted teeth.

The officer slowly sat back down, but neither he nor his companion looked particularly convinced by Sam’s assurances. They nodded in acknowledgement, turning back to their meals, but Sam could tell that they were watching him.

_//What the fuck was that?//_ He demanded after a moment, rubbing his good hand over his face.

There was a long silence before Ratchet replied, his voice clipped and tight, _//That was Skids earning himself additional work detail.//_

_//Is he glitched? What’s his problem?//_

_//I frequently ask myself the same question. As far as my diagnostic skills can determine, he has a perpetual case of poor judgment.//_

Sam huffed loudly, spearing a samosa with a fork. The ringing in his head was already receding, but it had certainly curbed his urge to get back to the neuralnet. He worked his way through his meal, aware of Ratchet’s irritation bleeding across their bond, before he started towards the tray receptacle. As he passed by the two officers, he noticed that their plates were empty and he winced his eyes shut in embarrassment.

Before Sam could make it to the receptacle, Bumblebee’s holoform snapped into existence beside him. A nearby soldier jerked as though he had been electrocuted, his eyes widening in surprise. Bumblebee turned to look at the man, smiling in apology, as his companion murmured something urgently. Whatever he said, the solider obviously understood, for he snapped off sharp salute.

Bumblebee took Sam’s tray, scrapping dishes and stowing them away, before gesturing towards the mess hall entrance. Sam grimaced, but fell into step beside him.

“More good will?” He asked, and Bumblebee smiled sympathetically.

“Dr. Lewis’ orders.” He confirmed.

Sam felt a swell of genuine irritation, and he had to fight the urge to snap at his guardian. Lewis was not his superior, and he was not required to obey her orders. Almost before the thought had finished crossing his mind, he felt Ratchet’s displeasure across their bond—and this time, it was not directed towards Skids.

Sam bit off his protest, pushing his hands into his pockets as he followed Bumblebee without complaint. They walked in silence towards the officer’s section of North Quad, and Sam’s good mood from earlier deteriorated with every step. He had weeks of physical therapy to look forward to, and that was before his surgery to remove the plates in his shoulder.

Sam pressed his badge against the card reader set into the wall by his door, before walking into his apartment. He didn’t even have the chance to toss his badge onto the table before Bumblebee was on him. The scout pushed Sam up against the wall hard enough to force a grunt out of him, before pressing against him from chest to hip.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded, before Bumblebee ducked his head to mouth at the sensitive spot below his ear. Sam bit back a groan, and he could feel a flash of exasperation through the Creator bond before Ratchet’s mental presence disappeared.

“You’re tense.” Bumblebee murmured against his skin, raising his head just enough to bite lightly at Sam’s earlobe, “Your physical therapy will be more effective if you are relaxed.”

Sam barked a laugh at the flimsy excuse, but he wasn’t about to call Bumblebee out on it—not when the scout was unbuttoning his shirt, and mouthing down the column of Sam’s neck. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the familiar pull in his groin, when Bumblebee sucked lightly at the hallow of his throat. Sam made a strangled noise, somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and then Bumblebee pulled the shirt off his shoulders and pushed him towards his bedroom.

Sam stumbled backwards, his arms wrapping around Bumblebee’s shoulders as he kissed the holoform urgently. The scout smiled against his lips before kissing him back, licking his way into Sam’s mouth and nipping at his bottom lip until Sam was panting with need. Suddenly, Sam felt the edge of his bed against the back of his legs—he didn’t have time to react before Bumblebee pushed him and he fell backwards onto the mattress. Bumblebee stood there for a moment, staring down at him with a penetrating expression, before he leaned forward and bracketed Sam’s body with his arms.

He could feel Bumblebee’s hip pressing against the hard line of his erection, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to get himself under control. Bumblebee apparently had other ideas, for he chose that moment to roll his hips slowly against him. Sam couldn’t stop the low moan that escaped his throat, his hands coming up to grip Bumblebee’s forearms as he thrust up against the holoform. Bumblebee allowed Sam to repeat the action until he was openly gasping, and then the scout moved away. He felt Bumblebee’s hands at his waist, tugging at his belt before pulling it off and dropping it on the floor. Sam reached down to unfasten his pants, when Bumblebee caught his wrists and pressed them into the mattress just above Sam’s head. He stayed there for a long moment, leaning against Sam chest-to-chest and groin-to-groin, as he stared at Sam meaningfully.

Sam understood, just as he had yesterday: no touching without permission.

He squeezed his eyes shut at the hot wave of arousal that burned through him, his dick painfully hard and twitching in his pants. It was a hell of a time for him to realize that he had a submissive streak about a mile wide.

Bumblebee laughed softly into the skin of his chest, and then he was tugging at Sam’s fly. Sam lifted his head to watch as Bumblebee pulled off his pants and boxers, dropping them onto the floor. The scout glanced up and met his eyes, a sly smile curling the corner of his mouth as he reached out to grasp Sam’s aching erection. Sam choked out a soft whimper as his hips jerked upwards into Bee’s grip. Bumblebee moved his hand slowly, languidly, up and down the length of Sam’s cock—fast enough to stoke the heat pooling low in his belly, but not enough to get him off.

Sam was opening his mouth to plead with him, when he felt Bumblebee’s mental presence shift. At the next stroke of Bumblebee’s hand, liquid heat poured through Sam’s synapses. He cried out loudly, thrusting up against the scout’s hand as the charge faded away. Sam fell back against the mattress, gasping wildly. He was beyond reason, beyond coherency, as he threw himself at Bumblebee’s mental presence. The bond between them flared to life and Sam became aware of his bonded’s burning need.

_Please— Bee, please._ He begged wordlessly, and the scout obliged him.

With every stroke of Bumblebee’s hand, a hot wave of charge washed across their bond. Sam was moaning openly now, writhing against the mattress as he thrust wantonly into Bumblebee’s palm. Sam could feel his bonded’s building pleasure, hot and urgent and _perfect—_

Another charge hit him as Bumblebee twisted his wrist just so, and Sam arched up as he came, spilling into Bumblebee’s hand with a sharp cry. A moment later, the bond between them flared brightly as Bumblebee’s overload took him. The intensity of the sensation was indescribable, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he shuddered through Bumblebee’s release. 

It took a long time before Sam felt capable of rational thought. He blinked his eyes open and pushed up onto his elbow, glancing down at Bumblebee in amusement.

“I have to hand it to you.” Sam teased, his voice barely a murmur, “If I were any more relaxed, I’d be dead.”

Bumblebee huffed a quiet laugh, climbing onto the bed to lay down beside him. Sam smiled at him, shifting forward to run his fingers over Bumblebee’s jaw. The simulated skin beneath his fingertips was soft and pliant, perhaps not as warm as real flesh, but otherwise it was virtually indistinguishable. His eyes flicked up to meet Bumblebee’s intense stare.

“Do you enjoy it when I touch you like this?” Sam asked curiously, his thumb ghosting over Bumblebee’s bottom lip.

“I always enjoy it when you touch me.” The scout replied sincerely, and Sam gave him a wry look.

“You know what I mean.”

Bumblebee’s voice was husky when he replied, “Yes, I enjoy it.”

Sam bent down until his forehead rested against Bumblebee’s temple, unable to articulate the feeling that was welling up in his chest.

“Sam?” Bumblebee asked after a moment, his voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“You still have to do your PT.”

* * *

Over the next week, Sam’s life settled into a predictable routine. In the mornings, he would work through his physical therapy exercises, sometimes alone and sometimes with Bumblebee, before he would make his way to the mess hall. After breakfast, he either walked to West Quad to spend time with Bee, Cliff, and Roddy if they were not on patrol, or he would head towards East Quad to Wheeljack’s lab. The engineer delighted in his company, and Sam found that he enjoyed listening to Jack’s exuberant stream-of-consciousness as he worked. Sometimes Sam assisted him, but often he just watched as the engineer took things apart and put them back together again in new and interesting ways.

After lunch, Sam would make his way to the medical bay to work on firewalling with Ratchet. Bumblebee often accompanied him, and Sam was thankful for the moral support. He had improved his capabilities with the filtering firewall, but he was still hopeless with the basic block, much to his consternation. Ratchet was unbothered by his struggles with the simple firewall, content that Sam was making progress in other areas.

One afternoon, after Sam had demonstrated a marked improvement in his control over the filtering firewall, Ratchet pinned him with a contemplative look.

“Bumblebee, demonstrate your egress filter.” He instructed, and there was something speculative about his tone.

The scout chirped in acknowledgement, and then Sam felt a gentle nudge in his mind. He turned his attention inwards, and _felt_ as Bumblebee drew the filter over his mental presence. It was profoundly strange—he could feel Bee through their bond, but otherwise it was as though the scout had vanished from the neural network.

“That is so cool.” Sam breathed, focusing on the spot where Bumblebee’s presence had been a moment before—when he brushed against it, he felt nothing.

Ratchet made a considerate noise, his optics narrowed in thought.

“Try it, Sam.”

Sam glanced up at Ratchet in confusion, “What, how?”

“Oblige me.”

Sam frowned minutely, but turned his attention inwards. He recreated what he had observed Bumblebee do—a complicated _twist and pull_, as though drawing a veil across his mind. To his astonishment, he felt the filter fall smoothly into place.

“Huh.” He said in surprise. The veil—and Sam could think of no other word for it—was soft against his mental presence, a shimmer between him and the neural network. He felt a fierce surge of pride from Bumblebee, and the scout crouched down beside him so that they were at eye-level with one another. Sam quirked a smile at him, before glancing to Ratchet.

“I don’t understand. You said that only scouts have egress filters.”

Ratchet made a noise in acknowledgement.

“Scouts and other stealth builds.” He corrected, before continuing, “I suspected that you might have the capability after your success with the filtering firewall.”

Sam shifted against the veil in his mind. It was comfortable and familiar, and maintaining it was as easy as breathing—there was no pain or strain, as there were with the other filters.

“But how?”

Ratchet lifted a pauldron in a shrug, “Were you not a Prime, I would say that you were sparked as a scout. As it stands, however, I suspect that you gained access to Bumblebee’s base programming when you bonded.”

“I could do this all day.” Sam admitted, “It’s easy.”

Ratchet’s mouthplates twitched in barely concealed amusement.

“The egress filter is useful for concealing your presence on the neural network, but it does nothing to protect you from attacks. You will need to continue practicing your firewalls.”

Sam huffed softly, “They can’t attack me if they can’t find me.”

Bumblebee chirped at him seriously, and Sam glanced at the scout in surprise.

“Things are not so straightforward on the battlefield. Egress filters are no match for a saboteur or a communications specialist.”

“Like Soundwave?”

The medic openly grimaced, “Primus forbid you ever get close enough to Soundwave to find out.”

Ratchet had him re-establish the filtering firewall in his mind, and then he and Bumblebee took turns testing its strength and limitations. Once Sam was thoroughly exhausted, Ratchet released him with a bottle of juice and orders to rest. He and Bumblebee spent the afternoon in the fresh air at Simpson Point, until Sam was ready to call it a night.

Approximately a week later, Sam was scheduled for surgery to remove the plates in his shoulder. To his surprise, the procedure was booked for the operating theatre in the hospital ward, and not Ratchet’s medical bay. So on an otherwise nondescript morning in early March, Sam found himself sitting on a gurney in a sterile room as a team of medical personnel prepared for the surgery. There was Ratchet’s holoform, of course, but also Dr. Lewis and a number of corpsman that he did not recognize. Sam tried his best to project an air of nonchalance as Lewis inserted the intravenous cannula into the back of his hand. As Sam lay down against the mattress, he felt Ratchet’s reassuring touch in his mind.

Ratchet had previously decided, against the objections of the anesthesiologist, to put Sam in stasis rather than sedate him for the procedure. Sam lay against the mattress for a long while, before the medic leaned into his field of vision.

“Ready?”

Sam nodded once, and then he felt Ratchet’s presence in his mind. There was a feeling of _intent_, a strange _push-pull_ sensation, and then the room telescoped away.

He woke up an indeterminable time later in the hospital ward, his left shoulder heavily bandaged and his body pleasantly heavy in that full-bodied way that he recognized as top-of-the-line military-grade painkillers. Ratchet’s holoform was already there, looking down at him with a clinical expression on his face.

“Welcome back. How do you feel?”

Sam frowned at the holoform, seriously considering the question. He felt warm, a strange combination of lightheaded and heavy-limbed that was somehow entirely enjoyable. After struggling for a long moment to figure out how to explain this to the medic, he blurted triumphantly,

“I feel like Christmas.”

Ratchet’s eyebrows rose to his hairline, but Dr. Lewis chuckled understandingly as she stepped up to his bedside.

“Christmas huh? Christmas tree or Christmas dinner?”

Sam smiled at her happily, pleased that someone seemed to understand.

“Oh, Christmas tree for sure. It’s a _glowy_ good, not a _baked_ good.”

Lewis laughed lightly, “Oh, I’d say that someone’s baked all right.”

Ratchet turned to regard her with an expectant expression, and she shrugged.

“He’s high as a kite. He’ll be fine, but you may want to up change up the Tramadol for Demerol.”

Sam was in the hospital ward for thirty-six hours before Ratchet consented for him to return to his apartment. His recovery was slow-paced and uneventful. He spent the majority of his days either sleeping or watching television, and by the time that Ratchet removed his stiches and cleared him for return to normal activities, he was ready to climb the walls.

Wheeljack’s surprise came two weeks later.

* * *

Sam frowned at the manila folder in front of him, willing his brain to absorb the information as though by osmosis. Optimus was preparing to receive the Moroccan delegation, and the file that Dave had prepared for him was full of information about the country and its Ambassador—one Ambassador Hilale—but Sam could understand only about half of what he read. The rest was a combination of foreign words and phrases that meant nothing to him.

“I hope Optimus doesn’t expect me to remember any of this, because short of me learning to speak fluent Arabic, I’m coming up empty.”

Dave chuckled at him good-naturedly, leaning back in his office chair as he pulled another dossier from the pile in front of him. He handed the folder to Sam, who bit back a groan as he opened it to see more of the same.

“This is information about their foreign policies, their governmental organization, and their economy.” He quirked a smile across the table at Sam, “It’s a thrilling read, I assure you.”

Sam huffed, gathering up the folders as he stood, “Oh yeah, a nail-biter I’m sure. Thanks, Dave.”

Dave waved at him good-naturedly, and Sam strode out of the agent’s office and back towards his apartment. He was halfway through the bridge when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Sam transferred the folders to one hand, pulling his phone out with the other. To his surprise, he saw that Wheeljack had texted him. He tilted his head curiously as he thumbed open the notification.

_Jack: Please come to East Quad immediately. I have something I would like to show you._

Sam’s curiosity intensified, not only because of the enigmatic message but also because of the unusual contact from the engineer. In all of the time that Sam had known him, Wheeljack had never once sent him a text message. He reached out to Bumblebee through their bond, brushing against him in greeting. At once, he felt the full weight of his guardian’s regard, and he smiled in response.

_//Do you know what Wheeljack wants?// _He asked.

He felt the mental equivalent of a shrug.

_//I am not sure.//_ Bumblebee replied, and Sam could feel the scout’s curiosity through their bond.

Sam typed out a quick reply to Jack, and then he began to walk towards the receiving area. From this point in the Hive, it was quicker to cut through the large room than to navigate the entire way around the bridge. It was still the better part of twenty minutes before Sam turned the corner towards Wheeljack’s lab. He smiled in fond remembrance at the black scorch marks on the ceiling and the walls, remembering how intimated he had been the first time that he had met the engineer.

He strode into the hangar a moment later, taken aback by the changes to the lab. The workbenches and shelving had all been moved aside, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. A strange contraption was located in the center of that space—a circular archway made of intricately twisted metal. Wheeljack stood beside the archway, shifting from pede to pede, his fins brightening to sunshine yellow at his approach. To his surprise, Optimus was standing a short distance away, staring at Sam with an inscrutable expression.

Sam tilted his head curiously, opening his mouth to inquire about the strange contraption, when he heard a voice from across the room.

“Sammy.” 

Sam’s heart lodged itself in his throat as his head snapped towards the voice. 

“_Ma?_” He whispered.

His mother and father were standing beside Wheeljack’s workbench, incongruous amongst the towering shelves of alien technology. They looked almost exactly as he remembered them—his mother’s hair was perhaps shot through with more gray and his father’s belly was not as round, but they were _there._

He didn’t remember crossing the space between them, but suddenly he was crushing his mother in a tight embrace. Sam tucked his face into the crook of her neck, tears burning in his eyes. She murmured at him lovingly, one arm wrapped around his shoulders as the fingers of her other hand carded through his hair. Sam pulled back just far enough to stare into her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but she was beaming at him in happiness. He couldn’t speak around the lump in his throat, but she seemed to understand. She raised her hands to cup his face, stroking her thumbs over his cheeks affectionately.

Sam glanced towards his father, who was watching them in barely restrained emotion. Sam knew that he was crying, but he found himself unable to stop the tears once they had started. His father stepped forward and wrapped him in a bear hug, and Sam hugged him back wordlessly.

“You look good, Sam.” His father murmured at last.

“You too, Dad.” He laughed quietly, “How’s Europe?”

His father chuckled at him, as his mother brushed the tears off his face.

“It’s been good. _We’ve_ been good.” His father replied.

“We saw Stonehenge.” His mother informed him, her hand raising to her chest, “Sammy, it was lovely.”

Sam shook his head, overwhelmed by the sense of surrealism that had overtaken him.

“How are you here?”

He felt Optimus approaching, and glanced over his shoulder at the Autobot leader.

“Wheeljack has successfully reverse-engineered a working ground bridge.” He rumbled, stopping a short distance away, “Once it passed its preliminary trials, I extended an invitation to your parents.”

Sam glanced back towards his mother.

“How long as you staying?” He asked, hope blooming in his chest.

“Only for the day, Sam.” Optimus replied regretfully, and his hope flashed into bitter disappointment in an instant. His expression must have been telling, because his mother grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Which means we don’t have any time to lose. Show me around this base of yours, _Mr. Ambassador_.” She said, grinning cheekily, and Sam rolled his eyes in response.

“It’s not my base, Ma.”

“Nana White cut out the newspaper article about the U.S. Ambassador’s visit. She has it hanging on her fridge.” His mother boasted, “You should see your picture, you look so handsome.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Some things never changed.

“Tell me everything, Sammy. How are you?”

Sam froze at his mother’s exuberant request, _pinging_ Optimus immediately.

_//What have you told them about me?//_

He felt a gentle touch, the Autobot leader’s presence overlaid with signifiers of reassurance and calm.

_//Nothing beyond what is publically known.// _

Sam glanced at Optimus in appreciation, before turning a warm smile onto his mother.

“I’m good, Ma, really good.” He assured her.

Sam gestured towards the hangar doors, noticing that Bumblebee had arrived in his alt mode. He quirked a smile at the scout, who popped open his doors for his parents.

“Bumblebee!” His mother exclaimed patting the hood of the Camaro affectionately, “How are you?”

Bumblebee’s radio brightened as the dial slid across frequencies, before music burst from his speakers.

“_Sweet Caroline! Good times never seemed so good! // Cause I’m walkin’ on sunshine, (o-ooh), and don’t it feel good?”_

Sam’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. It had been months since he had heard Bumblebee speak using song lyrics from his radio.

“That’s wonderful, dear.” His mother said, climbing into Bee’s cab after his father.

They went first to North Quad so that his mother could see his apartment. She exclaimed approvingly at the tidy space, and Sam felt a funny turn in his stomach to see his parents walking around his living room. He told them about Stanford and his classes as they drove a full circuit around the bridge, then he gave them a cliff notes version of the arrival of the _Trion _and the _Ark _as they accelerated onto the lift in the receiving room.

They spent a better part of two hours touring the Downtown area. He showed them the re-purposed Administrative building that was now the foreign embassy, the Seaman’s club, the theatre, and the base gym, doing his best impression of Dave Carter’s welcome speech. His father was quietly introspective for the tour, but his mother was expressive with her praise. After they had lunch at the Dining Hall, Sam had Bumblebee drive them to Simpson Point. The picturesque beachfront was close enough to base that Sam felt secure, but isolated and tropical enough to show off the beauty of the island. They climbed out of Bee’s cab, and walked towards the water’s edge.

His father was quiet for a long time, before glancing sidelong at him.

“How are you, Sam? Really?”

Sam returned his father’s look with a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I’m good, Dad. Really. I’m where I’m supposed to be.”

His father’s expression was searching, but after a long moment be nodded.

“That’s all I needed to know.”

When they returned to Wheeljack’s laboratory several hours later, Sam felt a familiar sense of anxiety building in his gut. His mother embraced him tightly, rubbing her hands over his back.

“Get a haircut before your next big Ambassador shindig.” She murmured into his ear, and he smiled at her fondly.

“I will.”

Wheeljack stepped up to the control panel by the ground-bridge, his servos flying across the keyboard. Sam startled back in surprise as a brilliant blue-green vortex sprung to life within the archway. A moment later, Will Lennox materialized out of the glowing maelstrom.

“Mr. and Mrs. Witwicky, are you ready to go?”

Sam found himself crushed within the tight embrace of his parents. There were no tears this time, no emotional farewells. They smiled at him fondly, murmuring their good-byes, before they walked towards the Major. Sam watched as the three of them stepped through the swirling vortex, and then they were gone. The blue-green glow disappeared a moment later, and Sam sighed softly.

He glanced towards Optimus.

“Thank-you for that.”

The Autobot leader inclined his helm fractionally, his expression solemn and sincere.

“It was my pleasure, Sam. It is my hope that we can host them again sometime soon.”

Sam reached a hand out, running his fingers over the gleaming yellow exterior of Bumblebee’s alt mode. He could feel his guardian’s warm regard through their bond, as well as his immense satisfaction.

“Did you know?” He asked, amusedly.

He felt the ghost of a chuckle across their bond

"Of course I knew," Bumblebee replied teasingly, "I told you—infiltrators are excellent liars."


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the bottom of my heart, thank-you so much to everyone who has been apart of this journey. Your kind words and your constructive feedback have made this possible. 
> 
> I appreciate you all more than I can say.

The rest of March passed by uneventfully. Shortly after Sam was cleared for return to normal activities, he registered for his spring classes. Although he had less than three weeks until the beginning of the semester, he was determined to make up for lost time. He spent his afternoons in front of his computer, reading syllabi and organizing his planner. By the first day of the term, Sam had fallen back into his familiar routine—patrol in the morning with the scouts, schoolwork until late afternoon, supper in the mess hall, and then evenings spent unwinding.

There were, however, several significant changes to his schedule. First, Optimus began meeting with him once or twice a week, as his duties permitted, to continue their lessons on Cybertron. The knowledge that he was technically a Prime put these lessons into an entirely different perspective. As always, Optimus was endlessly patient with Sam’s questions, which often led them down the garden path of history, politics, and religion. Optimus was also tolerant of Sam’s tentative inquiries into his time spent as a data clerk in Iacon, particularly as it related to his becoming Prime. Sam was moved by Optimus’ willingness to share details about his life as Orion Pax, which he knew that the Autobot leader kept close to his chest.

The second significant change to Sam’s schedule came in the form of governance lessons with Dave Carter. The personal aid had been the _de facto_ point-person for Optimus since Diego Garcia was recognized as an independent state. Once Sam was cleared for return to active duty, as it were, he and Dave began spending long hours in Dave’s office in South Quad as the agent brought him up to speed on all that had happened over the last seven months. Dave was a patient teacher who focused on the pragmatics of statecraft over diplomacy. Owing to Dave’s busy schedule, they often found themselves meeting at strange times—early in the morning one day, late in the evening another—but Sam didn’t mind. He had come to regard Dave as a close friend, despite the differences in their age and experience.

The third change had less to do with Sam and more to do with Hot Rod. In late March, Kup had recommended to Prime that Hot Rod join him on the Elite Guard. Owing to the disproportionate number of scouts on base, Prime had agreed. By April, Hot Rod had officially transitioned from scout to cavalier, under Kup’s direct authority. Although this was an advancement for Roddy, he bemoaned the inability to join them on their patrols, often at great length and volume.

Although, Sam mused privately to himself, his complaining probably had less to do with missing out on patrols as it did with being under Kup’s command. The older mechanoid was serious and strict, and he held Hot Rod to an exceptionally high standard—an unrealistically high standard, if you asked Hot Rod.

So it was that, on one morning in late April, Sam made his way to the receiving room to find Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, Hot Rod, and Sunstreaker talking animatedly amongst themselves. Sam crooked a smile at the sight of them, a riot of technicolor plating, as he approached. The receiving room was busy, with an assortment of soldiers, officers, and civilian administrative staff coming and going as they prepared for the start of the morning shift. Sam cut across the room, sidestepping around a cluster of Air Force personnel and nodding in acknowledgement at their polite greetings—he had long since given up correcting people who referred to him in some form of honorific address.

He brushed against Bumblebee’s mental presence as he approached, smiling at the swell of _welcome_ and _amusement _that he felt in response. Sunstreaker, Hot Rod, and Cliffjumper paused in their discussion, greeting him good-naturedly as he stopped in front of them. Sunstreaker crouched down, his arms resting lightly on his knee-struts.

“Good morning, Sam.” He greeted, and Sam smiled at the warrior in return.

Of all the things that had happened as a result of Ripcord’s attack, perhaps the most unexpected was the change in his relationship with Sunstreaker, and by extension, Sideswipe. The usually caustic mechanoid had softened considerably in the weeks since Sam on-lined. Although he never again pressed in on him as he had at Simpson Point, Sunstreaker stayed as close to Sam as polite convention would allow. He was endless tolerant of Sam’s fumbling attempts to improve his firewalling and navigate the neural network, offering to assist him in this way or that. Although Sunstreaker’s short temper and cutting sarcasm remained, they had all developed something of a comradery since Ripcord’s attack.

Bumblebee had been cool and reserved at first, but he had eventually thawed out.

“Hey guys,” Sam greeted cheerfully, “What’s up?”

“I’m here to escort Hot Rod to the _Ark_.” Sunstreaker said dryly, “As he is incapable of following orders in a timely manner.”

Sam laughed, “What did you do to deserve Roddy duty?”

Hot Rod glanced at him, pantomiming an expression of injured surprise, “Ouch. What’s with the drive-by?”

Sam grinned at him unrepentantly, “Is it really a drive-by if you’re committing career suicide?”

“It’s not career suicide. I’m a conscientious objector.”

“To what? Work?”

Hot Rod gasped dramatically, turning to look at Cliffjumper.

“Are you going to let him talk to me like that?” He demanded. When Cliff shrugged noncommittally, Hot Rod crossed his arms and complained, “Jolt would kick ass for me.”

Before Cliffjumper could reply, a strident alarm cut through the din of the receiving room. Its shrill wail was accompanied by the bright strobe of the emergency lights, and Sam stiffened from head to toe. He recognized the alarm—Prime had put the base on preliminary activation. He reached for Bumblebee across their bond, trying not to betray his sudden anxiety.

_//What is it?//_

_//Possible Decepticon sighting.//_ Bumblebee replied, transforming into his alt mode in a blur of rapidly shifting metal. Once his wheels landed on the concrete floor, he popped his door open and Sam climbed into his cab. By the time that Sam settled into the driver’s seat, the other Autobots had also transformed. They accelerated together towards the bridge, making it to the command center in record time. Humans and Autobots alike were streaming into the large room, taking their positions according to their station. As Sam ascended the metal stairs of the scaffold, he was surprised to see Dave Carter and Will Lennox standing next to middle-aged, heavyset Indian man. The stranger had thin-framed glasses and a thick mustache, and he wore a charcoal suit that practically exuded upper management. Optimus was standing in front of them in his bipedal mode, his countenance unusually serious.

Sam hesitated, unsure whether he should approach them or make his way around the group, when Optimus turned brilliant blue optics towards him. He had only a brief moment to lament his Bermuda shorts and five o’clock shadow, before Optimus gestured in his direction.

“Minister, allow me to introduce our Ambassador, Samuel Witwicky.”

Sam steeled himself, arranging his face in the polite expression that he had come to think of as diplomacy-neutral as he approached the group.

“Sam, this is Minster Doval, the National Security Advisor to the Prime Minister of India.”

“Good morning, Minister. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Sam greeted, shaking his proffered hand.

The older man hummed noncommittally, “Mr. Witwicky, the pleasure is mine.”

Although the man’s reserved nature did not betray any distaste, Sam had the distinct impression that he had been measured and found wanting. Sam resisted the urge to frown, well aware of the weight of Optimus’ regard.

“To what do we owe the honor?” He asked instead, well aware that the Minister was in some way connected to the suspected Decepticon sighting that had prompted the NEST activation.

Doval pushed one hand into the pocket of his trousers, waving the other towards Optimus dismissively, “Your leader will explain shortly.”

It took effort to keep the grimace off his face, but Sam managed it.

Less than ten minutes later, Optimus stepped up to the large conference table and the room fell quiet of its own accord. He nodded to Prowl, who typed quickly on the data pad in front of him, and then a grainy camera feed came into focus. The video showed an eight lane divided highway in a major metropolitan area. Traffic was heavy on both sides of the median, and the air was hazy with smog. The video clip played for ten seconds, froze, and then repeated itself on loop. Sam frowned, tilting his head in confusion. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking at.

When Optimus spoke, his voice was solemn and serious.

“Yesterday, at approximately 6:42 PM local time, speedometers on National Highway 16 recorded an anomalous reading of 588 kilometers per hour. Less than three minutes later, a highway camera recorded this video over 30 kilometers away.”

Sam glanced back to the camera feed, still unsure what he was supposed to be seeing. Prowl’s digits flew over the keyboard in front of him, and then two stills appeared beside the continuously looping footage. One image showed a sleek blue car in the far distance, the next image showed the same car in the immediate foreground.

Minister Doval stepped up to the scaffold and cleared his throat, “The cameras on our major thoroughfares take pictures every three seconds. This car, make and model Koenigsegg Agera, would have been traveling over 600 kilometers per hour to cross that distance in that time.”

Sam felt his eyebrows raise of their own accord. Bumblebee had once told him that his top speed was somewhere in the ballpark of 450 kilometers per hour, and he was one of the fastest scout’s under Prime’s command. He leaned forward as Prowl typed something on the keyboard, and a second set of image stills appeared on the other side of the video clip. Once again, the blue car was visible in the background of one image and the foreground of another. This set of stills was notable for the sizable increase in congestion—not only had the car traveled half a kilometer in three seconds, it had done so while weaving in and out of heavy traffic.

“How is this possible? It’s like it teleported.” Sam muttered in confusion.

Optimus glanced in his direction, “That is the crux of the question. No known ground frame has the ability to teleport, yet the unknown mechanoid was traveling at speeds that far surpassed even our fastest infiltrators.”

Doval frowned minutely, “So it’s definitely not one of yours, then?”

Optimus shook his helm, “It is unlikely, Minister.”

The frown on Doval’s face deepened, his eyes narrowing in thought, “As you can imagine, the Indian government will not permit a Decepticon agent to travel with impunity within our borders.”

Prime nodded, his countenance unusually grim.

“I understand, Minister. I will dispatch my soldiers to investigate immediately.” Prime turned to look at the scouts who had assembled at the other end of the conference table, “Bumblebee and Sideswipe, you will travel to the mainland and reconnoiter this unknown mechanoid.”

Sam’s breath stuttered out of him in surprise, and he felt Ratchet’s sudden censure across their bond.

“Why Bumblebee?” He blurted, interrupting Optimus mid-sentence. The Autobot leader turned to regard him for a long moment before he replied.

“As you are aware, Bumblebee is one of the fastest scouts under my command. He and Sideswipe have the best chance of tracking the unknown mechanoid without being detected.”

Sam’s surprise was quickly turning into ice-cold fear, and he struggled to keep the waver out of his voice.

“Send Cliffjumper instead.” He said, his voice sharper than he intended.

Optimus’ expression barely changed—his optics narrowed minutely and his mouthplates tightened—but Sam could feel his disapproval, and he flushed in response. Sam had seen Optimus direct that look at others, but never before had it been directed towards him. He dropped his gaze, gripping the railing of the scaffold until his knuckles turned white.

“Bumblebee and Sideswipe, you have your orders. Be prepared to depart within the hour.” Optimus ordered, as though Sam had not interrupted him. When Sam hazarded a glance up, he saw Bumblebee staring at him from across the room. His expression was inscrutable, but Sam could feel the scout’s frustration and restlessness across their bond.

_//You said that bonded pairs are kept off the battlefield.// _Sam accused, feeling inexplicably betrayed.

_//I’m not going into battle, I’m going into the field.// _Bumblebee corrected, and Sam could feel the irritation in his words, _//This is what I do, Sam.//_

Sam understood then that he had not just disrespected Optimus in front of his entire senior staff, he had also undermined Bumblebee’s competency as a scout and a solider. He felt nauseous with mingled shame and dread, and he wrapped the egress filter around his mental presence as tightly as he could manage. The pressure-bordering-on-pain was a welcome distraction.

Distantly, he realized that the Indian Minister was speaking again.

“The government is anxious to handle this quickly and discretely, Prime.”

Optimus inclined his helm minutely, “My scouts will track the unknown mechanoid from a distance. If they are discovered, they will retreat rather than engage in battle. The wellbeing of civilians is a concern that we share, Minister.”

Sam listened as Optimus and Prowl arranged for the scout’s departure. Bumblebee and Sideswipe would be traveling by C-17 aircraft to the mainland, where they would travel north on National Highway 16 to the last known location of the mechanoid. From there, they would attempt to track its Energon signature and determine its affiliation. If the mechanoid turned out to be a Decepticon, which seemed most likely, then they would monitor its movements and radio for reinforcements.

When Optimus finished speaking, the room erupted into carefully coordinated chaos as technicians and support staff hurried to follow Prime’s orders. Optimus gestured for the Minister to follow him, and the two dignitaries left the command center together. Shortly thereafter, he felt a tentative touch in his mind, contrite and disquieted in equal measures, and Sam glanced back towards Bumblebee. Although the scout was not looking at him, Sam knew that he had his full attention.

_//I know that this is difficult, but I’m good at what I do. I’ll be okay.//_

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to keep his fear and anger under control. He wanted to plead with Bumblebee—to beg him not to go, to be safe, to come back in one piece—and he wanted to yell, to vent his anger at the scout’s seemingly cavalier attitude at being sent away, at being put into danger yet again. He wanted to tell Optimus exactly what he thought about sending Bumblebee into the field and putting them both at risk. He wanted to scream until he was hoarse, to hit something until his outside felt as shitty as his inside.

He could do none of those things, however, so instead he steeled himself before he replied.

_//You should get going. You’re due at the airfield in twenty.//_

He felt Bumblebee’s disquiet sharpen into concern, and Sam projected calm acceptance to the best of his ability.

_//Go on.// _Sam encouraged, giving him a little nudge across their bond, _//I’ll see you soon.//_

Bumblebee hesitated for a long moment before he brushed against Sam’s presence in acquiescence. It was clear that he had not deceived his guardian, but Bumblebee had clearly appreciated his effort all the same. He glanced towards the scout in time to see him transform into his alt mode and accelerate out of the command center, followed a moment later by Sideswipe.

Sam set his jaw, his grip on the railing tightening until the metal cut into the soft skin of his palms. Over the next twenty minutes, he stared at nothing in particular as Prowl prepared for the C-17’s departure. His attention was focused inward, towards Bumblebee’s spark signature that glowed at him distantly. He stayed like that, silent and intent, as Prowl gave the green light for departure. He watched the large cargo jet trundle towards the runway on the large monitors at the back of the command center. As the C-17 prepared to take-off, he felt Bumblebee’s gentle touch in his mind—a farewell and a promise.

_//Good luck. Bring me back something nice.// _He murmured across their bond. He felt a swell of amusement from his guardian, and then the C-17 was accelerating down the runway. Moments later, the large plane was wheels up, and Bumblebee’s presence faded until it was a pinprick in the distance of the neural network—and then it was gone.

Their bond felt quiet and still. It was a deeply disconcerting feeling, like homesickness. Like loss.

Sam pushed back from the railing, walking towards the stairs without a backwards glance. He was aware of Ratchet’s presence through the bond, equal parts serious and stern. Sam withdrew as far as the Creator bond would allow him, hoping that Ratchet would take a hint and leave him alone.

Not that he could do anything about it either way, Sam thought grimly.

He took the stairs two at a time, and then walked briskly towards the command center entrance. He didn’t look at anyone as he passed, staring resolutely ahead as he pulled the veil tighter still around his mental presence. He had no desire for anyone to know about the maelstrom of anger, fear, and shame that was churning through him. Before he could reach the exit, however, Sunstreaker crouched down beside him.

“Do you want a drive?”

Sam bristled, offended that the warrior would presume to step into Bumblebee’s place in his absence. Before he could tell Sunstreaker to fuck off, however, the yellow Autobot raised his servos placatingly.

“Nothing like that Sam. I just thought that you might want to talk—I know something of what you’re going through.”

Sam exhaled slowly, his cheeks pinkening in embarrassment. Of course Sunstreaker would understand; he had been separated from his spark twin for thousands of years. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, before glancing up at the warrior apologetically.

“Thanks Sunny, but no thanks. I don’t feel like talking.”

The yellow mechanoid lifted his pauldrons in a shrug, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Sam searched the warrior’s face, looking for some sign of judgment or mockery, but he could find none. He nodded slightly, murmuring his thanks, and then walked out of the command center. West Quad was a flurry of activity as human soldiers and support staff hurried to complete their orders. Sam sidestepped around a cluster of administrative personnel, and headed in the direction of the bridge. He was half-way to the West Quad entrance when Optimus’ holoform shimmered to life in front of him.

Sam pulled up short and pushed his hands into his pockets, well aware of how defensive he must look.

“Do you mind dressing me down someplace less public?” Sam asked flatly.

“May I walk with you?” Optimus replied instead, and Sam could do nothing to hide the grimace that pulled at his face.

“It’s a free country.” He replied automatically, before realizing his mistake. Rather than correct himself, however, Sam continued walking as Optimus fell into step beside him. Sam waited for the Autobot leader to say something, a sense of trepidation building in his gut, but Optimus was quiet. They were almost to North Quad before the tension had become intolerable, and Sam was driven to speak to alleviate his discomfort.

“I shouldn’t have questioned your orders.” He said, unable to look at the holoform, “I was out of line.”

Optimus sighed, and it was a long moment before he replied.

“You can always come to me with your concerns, Sam. I value both your perspective and your feedback.” Optimus said, turning to look at him solemnly, “But there is a time and a place to voice your dissent, and that was not it.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Sam replied, resisting the urge to flinch away from the quiet reprimand in Optimus’ voice, “I guess I panicked.”

They stepped through the North Quad doors together, and continued towards the Officer’s section.

“Your bond with Bumblebee, although a gift from Primus, has complicated matters.” Optimus admitted, apropos of nothing, and Sam glanced at him in surprise.

“What?”

“Bumblebee is one of my most valuable soldiers. His loss on the battlefield will be a significant detriment in our fight against the Decepticons—and your bond represents a real risk to you both.”

Sam turned his head to frown at the Autobot leader, “You won’t send Bumblebee into battle again?”

Optimus glanced at him, his expression solemn, “No, Sam. To risk Bumblebee is to risk you both.”

Sam’s frown deepened. He should have been elated by the news that Optimus would no longer send Bumblebee to the frontlines, but Prime’s remorseful tone had pulled him up short. After a moment, Sam understood. Bumblebee was the most loyal being, human or Autobot, that he had ever met. It would kill him to sit on the sidelines while his comrades risked their lives in battle.

“Is that why you sent him?” Sam asked quietly. It would be like Optimus to give Bumblebee the chance to contribute to their cause in ways other than battle—he had done the same for Sam, after all.

“That is part of the reason, yes, but Bumblebee’s capabilities as a scout make him the obvious choice for this assignment.”

Sam nodded slowly, falling silent as they approached his apartment. He pressed his badge against the card reader, hesitating a long moment with his hand on the door handle.

“I am sorry, Optimus.” He said at last, voice quiet.

Optimus’ face softened in a smile, “I know, Sam. You’re long since forgiven.”

Sam nodded slowly, murmuring his thanks before he pushed open the door and stepped into his apartment. When he glanced over his shoulder, the holoform was gone.

* * *

The following days passed by in a miserable blur.

The longer that Bumblebee was gone, the more that their bond ached in his mind. It was like an angry bruise, tender and sore, and it served as a constant reminder of his absence. At first, Sam tried to distract himself with schoolwork, but after re-reading the same paragraph for half an hour, he had tossed his textbook aside in disgust. He spent the rest of the afternoon flipping through channels on the television and browsing the Internet, but to no avail—nothing he did could take his mind off the emptiness of their bond.

By the following morning, Sam had completely lost his appetite. He spent his time alternating between the bed and the couch, but he did not step foot out of his apartment all day. He became aware of Ratchet’s presence across their bond shortly after noon, pointed and concerned, but Sam resolutely ignored him. It was just after seven in the evening when Ratchet’s holoform appeared in his living room, pinning him with an openly disapproving look as soon as he solidified. Sam glared back at the holoform from his spot on the couch, pulling the throw blanket up to his shoulders.

“Could you knock for once?” He snapped.

“Knock, knock.” Ratchet replied sarcastically, “Get up.”

“Ratchet—“ Sam started, a threat in his voice, when the holoform yanked the blanket off him. Sam sat up at once, anger replacing the miserable apathy that had shrouded his mind all day, “What the fuck, Ratchet!”

The holoform tossed the blanket into Sam’s bedroom, looking back at him expectantly.

“I said get up.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Sam, I’ve given you all day to exercise some modicum of self-preservation.” Ratchet said, not unkindly, “Now you’re going to the mess whether you like it or not.”

Sam stared at the holoform in disbelief for a long moment, before the fight abruptly went out of him. He dropped his gaze, rubbing a hand over his mouth before he could speak.

“This is bullshit, Ratchet.” Sam said quietly.

“We can talk about it on the way.” He replied, handing Sam his shoes. Sam sighed, toeing on his sneakers and climbing to his feet without further protest. Ratchet gestured towards the door, giving Sam his badge as he passed. Sam pulled the lanyard over his head and stepped into the corridor, Ratchet following close behind him. They walked in silence, but Sam was aware of the medic’s quiet regard through the bond. When they arrived at the mess hall, he glanced at Ratchet in surprise as he followed him inside. The holoform lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

“You could use the company.”

Sam huffed quietly, but he did not voice a complaint. He picked up a tray and moved along the galley, grabbing items indiscriminately as he walked. The mess hall was quiet that night, quiet enough that he could hear the buzz of the flat screen television mounted to the wall a short distance away. In a strange twist of déjà vu, Sam realized that Bob’s Burgers was playing on the screen.

It was not a welcome association.

Sam sat at the nearest empty table, working through his tray methodically. Ratchet sat across from him, his expression inscrutable, as Sam finished his meal. When Sam put down his fork, he glanced at the holoform in mild exasperation.

“Satisfied?”

“Not in the least.” He replied seriously, pushing his chair back and standing up. He took Sam’s tray and nodded his head towards the mess hall entrance. They walked together to the trash and then out into the corridor. Sam could feel Ratchet’s mounting introspection, and the holoform eventually sighed.

“I understand how difficult this has been for you. I’m sorry.”

Sam glanced at him in surprise, taken aback by the sympathy in his voice. All at once, Sam realized that Ratchet was certainly able to feel the omnipresent ache in his mind. Sam pushed his hands into his pockets, raising one shoulder in a haphazard shrug.

“When Bumblebee told me about spark bonds, he left out the part about the shittiness of separation.” Sam replied dryly, “It takes a lot of the shine off it, let me tell you.”

“My vicarious experience has been an unpleasant education.” Ratchet acknowledged, “But I am sure that it will get easier with—“

“Ratchet, if you say this will get easier with practice,” Sam interrupted him dryly, “I might actually commit ritual suicide.”

The holoform’s lips quirked in amusement, “I was going to say that it will get easier with time. I have it on good authority that as your bond strengthens and as you gain experience with separation, it will hurt less.”

Although his words failed to comfort Sam, they did pique his curiosity.

“Sunstreaker?” He guessed.

Ratchet nodded, “He has been concerned about you. They both have.”

Sam sighed softly. He was no stranger to depression, having struggled greatly when he had first arrived on base. The bleakness of the last two days had reminded him of those first painful months, and he was forced to admit that the twins’ concern was not entirely baseless. Sam felt Ratchet’s intense scrutiny through their bond, and he was surprised by his sudden urge to reassure the medic.

“I’ll be fine.” He murmured, glancing at the holoform, “Like you said, it’ll just take time, and apparently I have that in spades.”

Ratchet made a considerate noise, but his scrutiny did not abate in the least. They walked the rest of the way to his apartment in companionable silence, passing by officers and soldiers with terse nods of acknowledgement. When Sam pressed his badge against the card reader, Ratchet pulled open the door for him. Before Sam could step into his apartment, however, the holoform abruptly reached out and squeezed Sam’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine, Sam.” Ratchet muttered, giving him a little shake, “Doctor’s orders.”

Sam’s lips quirked, “Thanks Ratch. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The holoform stared at him for a long moment, and it did not take a mental bond for Sam to understand what it was that Ratchet was thinking. He smiled at the holoform affectionately, nudging him from across their bond.

_//Right back at you.//_

Ratchet huffed loudly in the silence of the corridor, dropping his hand away.

“Get some sleep.” The medic ordered, and then a moment later his holoform disappeared.

Sam laughed quietly, stepping into the apartment and letting the door close behind him. He made his way around the space, tidying up the mess that had built up over the last two days, before he walked into the bedroom. He grabbed a pair of sleep pants, and then stepped into the bathroom. He had just turned the shower value to hot and was about to shuck his pants, when a familiar alarm cut through the silence of the room.

He jerked back in surprise, his heart leaping into his throat. Before he could reach out to Ratchet, however, the medic’s voice was already cutting across their bond.

_//The scouts have reported back and it does not look good. Make your way to the command center as soon as you are able.//_

Sam slammed off the shower value, refastening his pants as he jogged into his living room. He was dressed and making his way towards the bridge only moments later.

_//Is Bumblebee alright?//_ He demanded, and he felt Ratchet’s wince in response.

_//He’s fine, and lower your volume.// _

Sam pulled the veil tightly around himself reflexively, stepping through the North Quad entrance before quickening to a jog.

_//I’ll be there as soon as I can.//_

He felt a thrum of _acknowledgement_ from the medic, and Sam sidestepped out of the way of a harried looking officer. It was the better part of ten minutes before he jogged into the command center, out of breath and anxious. The large room was unusually quiet, and Sam could tell by the atmosphere of tense anticipation that whatever the scouts had found was cause for serious concern. He took the stairs of the scaffold two and a time, hurrying to meet Will and Dave who were standing at their customary position at Ops.

“Sorry I’m late.” He apologized as he came to a stop beside them, “I was just getting into the shower.”

Dave shook his head, “You’re not late. We’re still waiting on a few people.”

Sam glanced towards the large conference table in the middle of the room. Optimus, Prowl, Ratchet, and Ironhide were present, but Kup and Ultra Magnus were conspicuously absent. So too were Sunstreaker and Cliffjumper, and when Sam checked the time on his phone he realized that the scouts were certainly on patrol.

He glanced back towards his companions, “What do we know?”

“Bumblebee’s message was terse, they can’t send large data packets when they’re reconnoitering, but they have found evidence of multiple Decepticons in the area.”

Sam frowned, “What would they be doing in India? Staging an attack on Diego Garcia?”

Will shook his head minutely, “It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but it’s unlikely. They’re too far north to be converging for an attack on the island.”

Before Sam could reply, he heard the distant roar of engines and the remaining Autobots made their way into the command center. As soon as they transformed and took their positions around the room, Optimus stepped up to the conference table. He nodded once to Prowl, and after a short pause, a topographic map of India appeared above the table. It rotated slowly, and Sam could see two blue dots on the eastern part of the map. As he watched, five red dots appeared scattered across the east coast.

“The scouts travelled to National Highway 16, where they picked up the trail of the unknown mechanoid. They followed its signature all the way south to Chennai, before the trail disappeared. However, in and around the city, they found traces of numerous Decepticon signatures—including Barricade and Shockwave.”

Sam felt his stomach fall into his feet, dread twisting in his gut at the Autobot leader’s foreboding tone. Optimus gestured to the holographic projection, and it zoomed in on the east coast where a red dot blinked ominously.

“The signatures appear to be converging around the Madras Atomic Power Station, located here approximately 80 kilometers south of Chennai. The Indian government is treating this incursion as a threat to national security.”

“They going to attack the reactors, Optimus?” Will asked, matter-of-factly. Sam grimaced deeply, the Major voicing the question that sat heavily on his mind.

Prowl stepped forward, tilting his head considerately.

“That is a possibility, Major. A meltdown of the Madras Atomic Power Station would cause widespread destruction on the Indian subcontinent, and the prevailing winds would carry nuclear fallout into western China, Nepal, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. It would be a humanitarian disaster of untold proportions.”

Will’s expression darkened, his body going very still. Sam recognized that look—he had seen it before in Mission City and in Egypt.

Sam glanced back towards the holographic projection as Prowl spoke, something niggling at his mind.

“Why there, though?” He asked hesitantly. Optimus turned to look at him, and Sam could tell by his expression that he was encouraging him to continue, “How many nuclear power plants does India have?”

“Twenty-two.” Prowl replied promptly.

“So why this particular power plant? And why now?”

“Both good questions. The Madras Atomic Power Station is the only station in India that is a part of the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor program, an international effort to achieve low-energy nuclear reactions—or cold fusion, as it is often called. It is also the least guarded facility involved in the program.”

Optimus rumbled lowly, an ominous sound that made the hairs on the back of Sam’s arms stand up.

“As a result, the power station has a host of equipment and materials to support cold fusion research. If a nuclear meltdown is not their objective— or at least, not their only objective— it is conceivable that the strike force may have been ordered to obtain these materials.”

“Megs does have fusion canons, and we haven’t seen him since Egypt.” Will put forward, and Sam did not miss the grimace that pulled at Optimus’ mouthplates at the epithet, “Could he be using those materials for repairs?”

Prowl inclined his help in acknowledgement, “It is possible, Major.”

“So it’s all bad news, then.” Sam muttered grimly.

“Regardless of their motivation, we cannot allow the Decepticon forces to attack this power station.” Optimus asserted, his countenance equal parts serious and resolved, “The repercussions would be inconceivable.”

His optics swept slowly across the room, “We will go to intercept the Decepticons and prevent whatever it is that they are planning. I am ordering three strike teams for deployment.” He nodded towards the map of India, and it zoomed in to an area surrounding the nuclear power plant. Three staging areas were marked on the map, designated with team labels, “Ratchet and I with join Strike Team Alpha in the northern quadrant. Ironhide, Sunstreaker, and Sideswipe will join Strike Team Bravo in the southern quadrant. Arcee, Chromia, Elita-One, Mudflap, and Skids will run interference on the periphery, providing reinforcements as required.”

Sam chewed his lip, a deep sense of foreboding settling in his gut. He hesitated a moment, and then brushed against Optimus’ spark signature inquiringly. Prime turned to look at him, inclining his helm permissively.

“Yes, Sam?”

“Could this be a feint?”

Prowl nodded at once, “Although Megatron is most likely to engage in a full frontal assault, false flag operations are not outside of his modus operandi.” He turned to look at Optimus seriously, “It would be prudent to prepare for that contingency.”

“I agree, Prowl.” Optimus rumbled, “The remainder of our forces will stay on the island to coordinate defense. We will also bring the ground bridge to India to establish at the rendezvous point, in case the island is attacked or we are overwhelmed.” He turned once again to survey the room with a solemn and dignified expression, “NEST in on high alert until further notice. You have your orders.”

The next few hours passed by in a dizzying blur. Optimus and his team departed by C-17 aircraft shortly before ten o’clock that evening. By midnight, Sam found himself in the command post of logistics, a large room filled with computer terminals and monitors located deep within South Quad. Dave stood at his side, a grim expression on his face as he adjusted the coiled tube earpiece in his right ear. The agent had been coordinating with Will ever since the Autobots departed.

The command post was a bustle of reserved activity. Technicians worked at their stations, as officers walked up and down the aisles, relaying orders and checking for situational updates. Sam and Dave stood on the squat walkway of the upper level, which was separated from the main floor by only three steps and a narrow railing. Sam was watching the screen of the technician in front of him, which displayed the video feed of a body camera from Alpha Team. He could make out the power plant in the distance, illuminated in the bright green of a night vision camera.

Sam fiddled with the headset that he had been given when he had arrived, adjusting the mic and double-checking that it was muted.

_“Strike teams, confirm your positions.”_ Prowl’s cool voice cut through his headphones. There was a loud crackle of static, and then the confirmations began coming in.

_“Strike Team Alpha, in position. No Decepticon activity observed.”_

_“Strike Team Bravo, in position. No Decepticon activity observed.”_

_“Floater team, in position.” _Sam recognized Chromia’s voice, _“We can detect some faint trace signals, but nothing that we can get a lock on.”_

Sam glanced up at the monitors that took up the entire back wall of logistics; each screen displayed a different angle of the power plant. He could make out Optimus Prime in one, his countenance focused and serious. There was Sideswipe and Sunstreaker in another, waiting in their alt modes in a large, empty parking lot. Another screen showed Ratchet, waiting on the fringes of a heavily vegetated area not far from Optimus’ position. The sight of the medic caused Sam to reflexively draw the egress filter around his mental presence, a motion that was becoming second nature to him by now. 

An officer stepped up to Dave, handing him a single piece of paper. Dave nodded, glancing down contemplatively, before handing the paper back to the officer with a murmur of thanks. He raised his hand to his earpiece, catching sight of Sam’s confused expression.

“Sitrep.” He explained, and then he was speaking to Will.

“Lennox, the Lancers are ready to depart. What are you orders?”

Dave paused for a moment before nodding, stepping forward to tap the technician in front of them on the shoulder. The man turned in his seat, glancing at Dave expectantly.

“Lancers have the green light. Lennox wants them in the air.”

The man nodded, before turning back to his computer station. He typed briefly, before speaking into his headset.

“14th Fighter Squadron, you are cleared for immediate departure from the western airstrip.”

Suddenly, Prowl’s controlled voice cut across the chatter coming through Sam’s headset.

_"Unknown mechanoid, make and model Koenigsegg Agera, spotted 10 kilometers east-southeast of Kalpakkam. Bravo Team, be advised that the mechanoid is closing fast on your position.”_

_"Acknowledged."_ Ironhide growled in response.

Although nothing changed outwardly, the tension in the room became palatable. Sam crossed his arms over his chest, as Dave leaned against the railing in front of them. Neither of them spoke a word. All of a sudden, there was a loud crackle of static and the sound of rapid gunfire burst from his headset. Sam felt his heart leap into his throat, and his eyes snapped to the center display on the back wall. Bravo Team scrambled out of the way as the blue Agera slid into their formation, transforming as it came to a stop. Its canons were already charged by the time that it finished its transformation, and it began firing indiscriminately into the team.

_"Confirmed Decepticon presence, designation Detour,”_ Prowl's calm voice cut over the sound of battle, _"Infiltrator and saboteur. Armament includes arm-mounted laser cannons and vibroblades."_

The video feed shook dizzyingly as the soldier ran for cover. Sam could make out Ironhide attacking the Decepticon before the solider slid in behind a concrete barrier. His eyes skipped from screen to screen, trying to see what was happening to Ironhide. Abruptly, the large screen in the center of the wall snapped to another angle of the battle, showing Ironhide and Detour pummeling each other. Detour disappeared as though he had teleported, before appearing a short distance away and unleashing a volley of laser fire into the midst of scattering NEST soldiers.

As Sam watched, two soldiers hit the ground hard. They did not get back up again.

_"Fall back, reposition!"_ Ironhide barked over the channel.

_"Prowl, orders?"_ Chromia cut in sharply, her voice strained and tense.

_“Maintain your position.” _

All of a sudden, a loud roar ripped through the speakers of Sam’s headset. He yanked it off his head, swearing viciously, as others in the room did the same. His eyes were drawn to the main screen on the center of the back wall by a flash of bright light. After a moment, the light faded until he could make out flames engulfing a structure in the foreground of the video feed.

“Is that the power plant?” He demanded urgently.

Dave shook his head, but before he could reply, Optimus’ voice cut commanding over the channel.

_"Shockwave and Barricade have attacked the diesel generator building. Alpha Team is moving to intercept."_

_"Acknowledged, Prime.”_ Prowl replied_, “Dispatching first responders and search and rescue now.”_

Before the strategist had finished speaking, there was a loud crackle of static and then Chromia’s voice broke into the feed.

_“Knock Out and Rampage are coming in hot—moving to intercept.”_

Sam turned to look at Dave, the first stirrings of genuine fear licking up his spine. The agent returned his gaze grimly, before looking back to the video feeds. Neither of them spoke as Prowl started to issue rapid-fire commands with his usual implacable calm, moving troops and resources into position to respond to the changing threats.

The well-oiled bustle of the command post was suddenly interrupted by a strident alarm that Sam had never heard before. The piercing klaxon cut to Sam’s bones, and shortly thereafter, the emergency lights began to strobe rapidly. The reaction in the room was instantaneous—heads snapped up, bodies stilled, and voices died away as the command post fell into dead silence. 

Suddenly, a loud boom shook the room.

As though flipping a switch, the command post burst into frantic action. People shouted orders across the room at one another, as technicians spoke urgently into their headsets. Major Greer, who was the commanding officer in the room, yelled for people to focus up and _pay attention._

Sam turned panicked eyes towards Dave, who was reaching into his suit jacket and unholstering his service pistol. The agent raised his other hand, and pressed it against his earpiece.

“Agent Carter, _en route_ to the bridge with precious cargo. ETA, ten minutes.”

“Dave!” Sam yelled, voice strangled, “What the fuck was that?”

Dave’s expression was grim, and he answered matter-of-factly, “Decepticons.”

Sam’s heart was pounding against his ribcage, as Dave grabbed his upper arm and pulled him towards the door. Immediately, Sam yanked his arm away and fell into step beside him. As they made their way through South Quad, an assortment of officers, soldiers, and civilian personnel rushed around them. All of them had serious or stricken expressions on their faces, and they hurried passed a cluster of civilian support staff that were openly weeping.

There was another loud boom, which caused dust and sand to float down from the ceiling. Sam could tell from the percussive force of the blast that it had been much closer than the last volley.

All of a sudden, Sam felt something brush against the egress filter in his mind. The touch was light and exploratory, almost curious, but indisputably _hostile_. Sam stumbled as he focused every ounce of his willpower inwards, establishing a filtering firewall between himself and the hostile presence.

“Sam?” Dave asked concernedly. After a moment, Sam blinked his eyes open and looked desperately at the agent.

“Megatron’s here.”

Dave’s expression shuttered immediately, betraying nothing of his emotions, as he pushed Sam down the hallway. They ran, side-by-side, until they were out of logistics and back in the main part of South Quad. They were almost to the bridge entrance when thousands of small, silver balls began streaming out of the vents in the walls. Sam glanced down in confusion, pulling up short, as the metallic balls rolled across the floor in front of them.

Dave grabbed him roughly by the shoulder, pushing Sam behind him as he yelled into his earpiece.

“Microcons, eastern portion of South Quad, I need reinforcements!”

In a matter of seconds, the small, silver balls had coalesced together, transforming into a strange two-dimensional insect-like mechanoid. The Decepticon came at them fast, and Dave squeezed off three rounds as it approached. The mechanoid squealed loudly before shooting several razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel at the agent. The metal discs caught Dave squarely in the chest, and he went down hard. Sam was on him in an instant, his hands pressing against the bloodstains already blooming across his shirt.

The mechanoid darted to one side of the corridor and then the other, continuing its approach. Sam shook Dave desperately, but he remained motionless on the floor. Sam reached down and pulled the gun from his hand, turning to level the weapon at the approaching Decepticon. Sam had never fired a weapon in his life, but he instinctively braced one foot against the floor as his hand came up to steady the stock of the gun. The first three shots went wide, but the fourth hit the drone, spinning it around. The next three shots knocked it backwards, but the Decepticon kept coming.

Sam squeezed the trigger again, but it clicked uselessly in his hand. Empty_._

_Oh fuck._

The sound of heavy boots on concrete cut over the klaxon wail of the proximity alarm. Sam glanced behind the drone to see Will Lennox, Killian Anderson, and two unknown soldiers round the corner. Will raised his M4 as Killian shouted for him to _get down!_

Sam threw himself over Dave’s prone form, tucking his nose into the agent’s neck and raising his arms to shelter both of their heads. The loud, staccato roar of semi-automatic gunfire filled the corridor. It was deafening, louder than he remembered from Mission City or Egypt. The Decepticon drone squealed, high-pitched and pained, and then it shattered into its requisite parts. The sound of gunfire died away as the silver balls scattered across the hallway—lifeless and still. 

Sam pushed back onto his heels, his hands flying to Dave’s chest to apply pressure to his wounds. Will grabbed him roughly by the bicep, hauling him to his feet.

“Move your ass, Sam. Megatron is about thirty seconds from peeling open the Hive like a fucking orange.”

“Will!” Sam shrieked, “We can’t just leave him!”

Killian stepped forward, kneeling beside the agent and checking his pulse.

“I got him, Sam. Go!”

There was another percussive blast, louder than the first two explosions. Will shook him roughly.

“Come on, Sam!” He growled, and Sam nodded in acquiescence. With one last look at Dave, he followed Will as the Major ran for the bridge entrance. The two unknown soldiers followed behind them, protecting their six. When they stepped onto the bridge scant minutes later, they were greeted by pandemonium. Soldiers streamed towards the large receiving room, dressed in full combat gear and sporting semi-automatic rifles. Civilian support staff and technicians ran in the opposite direction, expressions of abject terror on their faces.

Before they could take a single step, Jolt squealed around the corner and slid to a stop in front of them. Sam and Will threw themselves into his cab, as Will ordered the two soldiers who had accompanied them to get Dave to the hospital ward. They nodded in acknowledgement, stepping back through the South Quad entrance as Jolt’s doors slammed shut. The shock trooper’s tires spun against the concrete until they found purchase, and then the Chevrolet Volt shot down the down the bridge at blinding speed.

Sam sat in the passenger’s seat as they drove, with his eyes squeezed shut and breathing heavily. The strain of the filtering firewall was making itself felt, and he was sweating profusely before they made it to West Quad.

“You okay, kid?” Will asked, and he could hear the tension in his voice.

Sam shook his head minutely, “I can’t keep this firewall up forever.”

“Deep breaths, Sam.” Will said encouragingly, “Just a little longer.”

The large blast doors of West Quad closed behind them with a resounding boom. Jolt accelerated hard down the corridor, taking a corner and coming to a stop within one of the Autobot hangars. He popped his doors, and Sam and Will climbed out of the cab. The hangar was large and empty, except for Wheeljack, Perceptor, and Bluestreak.

“Where is everyone?” Sam asked, voice small and strained.

“Topside. Megatron has launched a full frontal assault.”

"What's the situation?" Will asked grimly, checking his weapon.

"Not good.” Jolt replied, “The command trine has attacked the airfield. Ultra Magnus, Kup, and Hot Rod have engaged. Their objective seems to be the _Trion_ and the _Ark_. Megatron and Acid Storm have breached the outer perimeter of the Hive. It won’t be long until they’re in.”

“What about Optimus? How soon can he get back?”

“Optimus is currently engaged. They are trying to make it back to the rendezvous point, but Shockwave is keeping them occupied.”

Will scrubbed a hand over his face, wiping away sweat and grime.

“We have to get you out of here.” He said at last, turning towards Sam, “If Megatron breaches the Hive, we’re finished.”

Sam grit his teeth tightly, but he did not reply. Every ounce of his attention was focused on maintaining the firewall. Will turned to regard the researchers expectantly.

“Which one of you is the smallest and fastest?” He asked. 

Wheeljack stepped forward, shifting from pede to pede, “I am the only one of us with a bipedal alt mode.” 

Will nodded in response, “Take Sam and go. Use the southernmost emergency exit and head towards the southeastern quadrant. It’s thickly wooded, so the Decepticons will have trouble navigating the terrain. With any luck, the dense organic matter will also help to confuse their sensors.”

Wheeljack bobbed his head in acknowledgement, before transforming into his motorcycle alt mode.

“Can you mask your spark signature?” Will asked, motioning for Sam to step forward.

“No, I cannot. I am not a stealth build.”

Will raised one shoulder in a resigned shrug as Sam climbed onto Jack’s seat.

“Then you’ll just have to be fast and quiet.”

“We are going to be sitting ducks out there.” Sam managed grimly, as he grasped Jack’s handlebars.

“You’re sitting ducks in here, but in here you’re trapped. We just need to buy ourselves some time for Optimus to get to the ground bridge.”

Sam nodded stiffly, and Wheeljack accelerated forward without another word. The engineer drove out of the hangar and down the corridor towards the far end of West Quad. Sam couldn’t spare the focus or the energy to ask him where they were going—the strain in his mind was an agonizing pounding now, and Sam knew that he didn’t have long.

Wheeljack turned down a nondescript corridor, before chirping at him urgently.

“Brace yourself, Sam.”

Sam barely had the time to squeeze his legs around the motorcycle’s frame before Jack drove straight through the wall at the end of the corridor. The wall shimmered around them, and then they were speeding down a dark, narrow corridor beyond. Wheeljack accelerated rapidly, and soon Sam was forced to duck low over the handlebars to avoid the wind slashing against his face. 

Sam squeezed his watering eyes closed, focusing on his breathing.

_In, and out. In, and out. _

There was a sudden jarring bump, and Sam’s eyes flew open in surprise. They were outside, the sound of Jack’s engines cutting out abruptly as they accelerated down the packed dirt road. He realized that they were not far from Simpson Point, heading south. He hazarded a glance towards the base, and he froze in horror at the sight. The glow of numerous fires illuminated the Downtown area, as clouds of acrid smoke billowed into the night—the smell of burning wood and fuel wafted towards him as they drove. A sudden loud explosion caused him to startle violently, his head snapping towards the airfield to see a large fireball swell upwards into the night’s sky.

_Please, don’t let that be the Ark._

Sam gripped the handlebars tightly, the trees on either side of the road blurring as they drove. They made it to south-central in no time at all, and Wheeljack turned off the road and drove into the dense forest cover before coming to a stop. Sam climbed off, his legs shaky and weak, as Jack transformed into his bipedal mode. Without speaking a word, the two of them made their way deeper into the forest. It was strangely peaceful here, with the chirp of nocturnal insects and the distant sound of the ocean. They walked slowly, allowing Jack to make his way around the tangled undergrowth. Eventually, the quiet was interrupted by the sound of a distant explosion and the illusion of serenity was destroyed.

“Any ETA on Optimus?” Sam asked, and his voice sounded pained even to his own ears.

“Nothing yet.” Wheeljack replied softly.

They came to a stop by a fallen palm tree, and Sam leaned heavily against its trunk. He was soaked in sweat, his shirt clinging to his body as he trembled from head to toe. Jack’s optics shone brightly in the darkness, washing their surroundings in weak blue light. Sam’s harsh breathing was the only sound to be heard this deep in the forest.

Suddenly, Sam felt warm wetness trickle out of his nose. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, surprised when it came away smeared with blood. With dawning realization, Sam understood that his time was up.

“You have to go, Jack. You can’t stay here.” He rasped harshly, looking up at the engineer.

Wheeljack whistled at him urgently, rocking back and forth on his pedes, “I won’t leave you, Sam.”

“Jack, I can’t keep this firewall up any longer, and as soon as it drops, Megatron is going to know exactly where I am. You can’t be here when that happens.”

Wheeljack’s dorsal fins turned a sickly yellow-green, “No, Sam. Either we both go or we both stay.”

Sam looked at him in anguish, “Don’t argue with me, Jack! _Please_. I don’t think Megatron wants me dead, but he’ll kill you.”

To his dismay, Jack merely shook his helm, his expression resigned but determined. Sam felt a moment of heartsick panic, before he understood what he had to do. Sam grit his teeth, pulling himself up to his full height, as he pinned the engineer with his severest expression.

“Optimus says that I am a Prime. Do you believe him?”

A stricken look flashed across the engineer’s face.

“Sam, please—“

“Head to Cust Point—the vegetation is sparse there, but you can hide along the rocky bream.”

When the engineer failed to move, Sam injected every ounce of steel into his voice that he could manage.

“Wheeljack, do as I command.”

Jack’s dorsal fins flattened to his helm, turning rusty red before the engineer ducked his head in acquiescence. He turned to go, hesitating only long enough to say, “Please, be careful.”

“I’ll be fine, Jack. Go, now.”

With a mournful-sounding string of Cybertronian, the engineer obeyed him, disappearing into the thick foliage of the tropical jungle without a backwards glance. Sam waited until he could no longer hear Jack’s tires on the gravel in the distance, before he lifted his shirt to wipe the blood and sweat off his face. He waited for an additional count of twenty seconds, breathing deeply and steeling himself, before he let go of the filtering firewall. The neural network brightened in his mind for a brief second, brilliant and chaotic, before Sam drew the egress filter over his mental presence like a blanket. He immediately set off in a quick jog, making his way through the underbrush as fast as he could given the terrain. He was determined to put as much distance between him and that location as possible.

He had barely gotten two hundred feet before the roar of a jet engine shattered the night. Moments later, he heard a heavy impact a short distance behind him.

“Where are you, boy?” Megatron’s voice reverberated through the foliage. The Decepticon’s words were razor sharp, screaming _predator_ to the deepest recesses of Sam’s primitive hindbrain. He moved as quickly through the vegetation as he could manage without making any noise. It was slow going, but hopefully Megatron did not feel inclined to wander through the forest.

After a long moment, he heard the Decepticon leader’s voice again.

“If you turn yourself over to me, I will be merciful with your fellow insects. They do not need to suffer the same fate as the Autobots.”

His voice was closer now, drawing up on Sam’s right, although there was still a good hundred feet between them. Sam pulled the veil tighter around his mental presence as he continued making his way through the forest. If Megatron knew where he was, he would attack—that the megalomaniacal dictator was inclined to barter suggested that his plan was working.

“So be it.”

Sam ducked under a fallen palm tree, doing his best to stay low to the ground. His nose had stopped bleeding, but he could feel his blood sugar dropping—his hands were clammy and he was breaking out in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with his firewalls. Just then, he heard a loud snap several dozen feet behind him. Sam flattened against the tree trunk, going still instinctively. He strained his ears but he could hear nothing beyond the distant sounds of battle. After a long moment, he forced himself to his feet and jogged deeper into the undergrowth.

Suddenly, there was a loud screech from the canopy above him. His head snapped up, and he caught sight of a flash of movement among the palm fronds, glinting silver in the moonlight. Sam broke into a run, heedless of the noise that he might make. His feet sunk into the soft loam of the forest floor as he ran, maneuvering around obstacles as best as he could in the dim light. There was a sudden sound of cracking wood behind him, and then something heavy slammed into his back, knocking him off his feet. He landed face-first in the sand with a grunt, and then there was quiet growl above him as razor sharp teeth grabbed him around the neck.

_Ravage._

He gasped in exertion and in fear, waiting for the symbiont to sink its teeth into his throat, but nothing happened. Sam struggled to get his hands under him, but Ravage’s jaw tightened in response—not enough to injure him, but enough to send a message.

The earth shook as Megatron landed hard in front of him. Trees as thick as his waist snapped like twigs or were pulled out by their roots as the warlord approached. Suddenly, the weight on his back disappeared and Sam rolled over desperately. He found himself staring up into Megatron’s narrowed optics, the Decepticon leader’s face less than a meter from his own.

“There you are.” He purred, pressing a servo into the soft loam on either side of Sam’s body as he leaned closer. Fear unlike anything Sam had ever experienced in his life surged through him in an instant. He twisted his head, looking for an escape route, only to see Ravage stalking in a wide semi-circle a short distance away.

“There is no escape for you, boy.” Megatron assured him, before tilting his head considerately. He stared down at Sam for a long moment, his expression almost curious, before Sam felt an intense pressure against the veil in his mind. He gasped in surprise, pulling the veil closer in on himself, but it was all for naught. The veil shivered and then disappeared, and Sam found himself back within the neural network.

“This is unexpected.” Megatron rumbled, his tone equal parts surprised and thoughtful, “But not at all unwelcome.”

Megatron’s bloody red optics suddenly narrowed in concentration, and then his mental presence invaded Sam’s mind. Sam cried out in surprise as Megatron crawled over every inch of his spark signature. The Decepticon leader’s mental presence was focused and confident, and although Sam struggled in his grasp, Megatron held him easily. After a horribly long moment, there was a sudden sense of _pressure_ in Sam’s mind, the brightening of a connection, and then a Creator bond flared to life between them.

“No.” He whispered through numb lips.

_//Yes.//_ Megatron purred, his dark triumph swelling across their bond.

In that moment, Ratchet’s presence filled Sam’s mind as their bond flared brightly. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, for the mute terror that gripped him. He realized that the Autobots had returned, but he knew with certainty that it was too little, too late. It took less than a second for Ratchet’s presence to swell with _rage_ and _horror._

Sam reached for the medic desperately, when he felt Megatron shift forward.

_//Sam—!// _Ratchet cried, but Sam did not hear the rest of the sentence. There was a sudden feeling of pressure in his mind, and then everything telescoped away as Megatron forced him into stasis.

That night on the beach was the last time that Sam would see Diego Garcia for almost two long years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course this story had to end with Megatron capturing Sam! It was where Steelfeather's _Instability_ ended, and so too was this story destined to end on a cliffhanger. 
> 
> Please stay tuned for the sequel, **Tribulations**, which should be uploaded within several days. Please be warned: the tone of the sequel will be markedly darker than Signature, including tags such as: captivity, torture, non-con, Stockholm Syndrome, abuse, suicidal thoughts, and (in later chapters) graphic sexual content. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking by me all this time. You guys are truly wonderful.

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